Five Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez

A Collection of Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez – www.drgonzo.
org 1
Five Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez
Included in this Collection are:
An Explosive Personality (Police Drama)
Knight Checks Queen (Spy Thriller)
Flotsam and Jetsam (Spy-Police Drama)
Knight in Shining Armor (Spy Thriller)
The Hunter Haunts the Habitat (Private Detective Drama)
gonzoscti@hotmail.com Randy Gonzalez's Website

A Collection of Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez – www.drgonzo.org 2
An Explosive Personality
“I know ya’ll are familiar with salt peter,” Bomb Disposal Sergeant Floral Sage said. “I’m sure you
guys in the class are.” She had a tantalizing Texas accent. Dark eyes flashed mischievousness. “You mix
the salt peter, or potassium nitrate. With sulfur and charcoal. The combination of the three gives us a
crude form of gunpowder.” Sergeant Sage pointed to a diagram. At the Metro-County Police Academy, her
lecture was on homemade bomb devices. She was an expert. “Do enough fine tuning, and you end up with
an explosive. Using an appropriate pestle and mortar. Like with most things, too much friction causes and
explosive personality to this stuff.” She glanced around the room. The recruits were quiet. They always
were, she thought. “No one has a question?” Her lean muscular features, tough presence and strong
personality were intimidating. “Maybe we should go do the obstacle course?” Just then, her attention
riveted on the academy director. Her concentration was broken. Speaking of friction she thought.
Fireworks leaped inside.
“Attention on deck!” The recruit class leader screamed. As she stood to attention, the rest of the class
followed. They sounded off with their class motto, something along lines of serving and protecting.
“At ease,” the director said. Stern look, calm and confident. Recruits saw him as a hero. He threw an
appreciative glance to Sergeant Flo. His heart jumped. The eye contact lasted longer than a professional
greeting. A woman in uniform, he thought. This one in particular. The little voice in his mind screamed,
wow, she’s one good looking woman! Short dark red hair, cut close. Well-proportioned, big brown eyes
tanned and toned. She could be a recruitment poster for police work. He remembered the time she injured
him in a judo match. She was embarrassed, he was impressed. “As you were, ladies and gentleman.”
“Good morning, Director,” Sergeant Flo greeted. A controlled smile held back what she really felt. A
slight shoulder shift in his direction. The little voice in her mind yelled, whew, he can light my fuse
anytime! Too bad we couldn’t stay married to each other, she thought. Her choice, not his. Yet, she still
found Director Ridge Rockwell III very appealing. Good feelings stirred inside her.
“Morning, Sarge,” the director smiled. “Good to see you. Please excuse the interruption.” He was
actually looking for an excuse to enter her classroom. He approached the podium with a smooth
comfortable presence. Turning to the class, he said with an impressive voice, “Good morning class. My
apologies to the Sergeant for the interruption. I wish to review a few updates, pertaining to the training
curriculum and state rule changes and the upcoming certification exam.” He finished quickly and turned to
Sergeant Sage. A wink and a nod, a faint smirk. His trademark. As he passed by her, he whispered, “May
I see you in my office during the break?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered in a crisp manner, standing at attention. Holding back a smile which tried to
force itself across her full lips. She was taller than he. But, that didn’t matter to him. She knew he liked
tall women. “Would be my pleasure,” she whispered with a breathy tone.
“Mine too,” he whispered back. There was something about women cops, he thought. His mature good
looks, sophisticated manner and well-groomed appearance were very attractive qualities. The kind of
things that set him apart from other men. They were good together once. Just couldn’t live together.
Sergeant Sage knew the Director’s legendary reputation. He held the rank of Commander within the
agency. That meant gold eagles on the collar, just below deputy chief. Injured in the line of duty, he
accepted appointment to the police academy. He had transformed the training center into a premier
operation. Commendations had followed him where ever he went.
“Love the uniform,” he said, when he saw her approach. In the heat of passion, they married too
quickly. Then divorced. But, for weeks now, they had started seeing each other again.
“Permission to enter, sir?” Sergeant Sage asked from his doorway. A grin spanned her face. “You’re
looking good, Ridge. Of course in a mature kind of way. Aging nicely. Still attracting a following of
young female recruits?”
“Please, Flo.” He stood up from behind his desk. He felt her scan him up and down. Perfectly tailored
navy pinstripe pants. Starched white shirt, with gold cuff links. Silver tie. He dressed well. “Give me a
break. You know that wasn’t our problem. They’re too young. Your freedom was the issue.”
“I was always suspicious, though.” Her eyes flirted with him. “And, I know what the issue was, still
is.” She glanced around his office, still very fond of him. Down deep, she liked him very much.
“Trying to impress the recruits?” He asked with a teasing tone. “All this formality. My gosh, we’ve got
uniforms older than some of them.” He came around the side of the large oak desk. The black leather chair
swiveled and rocketed at his maneuver. He met her in the center of the room. They hugged, held and
stared a few seconds. They sat on an overstuffed brown leather couch.
She noted the office was done with an oriental flare. None of his diplomas hung the wall. Just Japanese
prints, depicting samurai warriors in action. His penchant for the Orient. He’d even studied at the Tokyo
Police Academy, a rough and regimented place. He had injuries to prove it.
“Comfy couch, Ridge,” she said, almost suggesting something. That smirk of hers pulled him in. “Does
it fold out into a bed?” A flare of daring showed in her eyes, flashing alluring flirtation.
“Why Flo, is that an offer?” He smiled with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve certainly done that before.” Her
accent got him again. Not just a southern woman, like a southern belle. With that genteel seductive
enticing manner. But, a Texan. She’d ride, rope and brand you. And, you’d like it. He did.
“Maybe later, but not here.” Her stare said she was still very interested in him. She knew the feeling
was reciprocal. “Call me. I’ve missed you the past few weeks. You have the number in your cell phone.”
“Always do.” He longed to be with her on a permanent basis again. She was never one to be tied down.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and started, “Okay, changing the subject. Got some things to run by you.
You’re the expert. By the way, coffee? Cigar?” She nodded with enthusiasm. He knew she always liked
the way he made coffee. Plus, the woman liked his imported hand made cigars. Very expensive.
“You still making that espresso stuff you call coffee?” She asked with a twang. “If so, I’ll have a cup.”
“I always loved your coffee making skills, among other things, Ridge.” She spotted the mahogany humidor
on his huge desk. “What was that Freud said about cigars?” Her jesting was intriguing. “Never mind, I’ll
take one for later.” Oh well, she mused. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, nothing else. By the expression
on his face, she knew a special assignment was just around the corner. That, she liked.
“Yes, my favorite too. Strong coffee, a good cigar, fast cars, a beautiful woman,” His voice trailed off.
He rose and fetched, as if commanded by her. He returned with two white cups and saucers and placed
them on the coffee table. He opened the humidor and presented a cigar.
“You always remember that I take mine black and hot. Very hot. Thank you.” She stared with intensity
and wondered. A warm affectionate emotion came over her. Why did I walk out on this guy? Just
couldn’t make it a permanent thing. Too many distractions. Haven’t found one better than this one.
“What?” He read the expression in her eyes. “You should’ve never left, Flo.”
“Let’s not go there, Ridge. Too late for that. We just need to be where we are for now.” Her voice
cracked a little. She was holding back. “So what’s up?” She changed the subject and forced seriousness to
grip her thoughts. “I know something’s happening. I’m guessing it involves bombs.”
“Good guess.” He winked. “You know I used to command the Intel unit,” he started to explain. “The
chief has asked my opinion on some things. Back when I was coordinating the hazmat and homeland
security stuff, I had occasions to work with the feds.”
“Sure, I remember all that.” She retrieved her coffee cup with the saucer. Dark eyes peered over the
edge of the cup as she sipped. She noticed her squirmed a little as she licked her lips. “Coffee’s great,
Ridge,” she teased. “I’ll savor the cigar, thinking of you later.” With a wink, she tucked the cigar in her
uniform shirt pocket. Leaning forward, balancing the cup and saucer, she touched his face. One finger
traced the outline of small scar over one eye. “So many injuries to one man. You were a good husband,
Ridge. I was just a bad wife. Sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” Her expression meant what she said.
Longing to relieve the wound, she added, “I’m glad we’re seeing each other again.”
“Thank you. Anyway,” he continued, working to understand. He didn’t want to go to the pain.
“Something’s come up about explosives. Synthesizing gel extracts with acids. Nitric acid to be precise.
Producing virtually undetectable explosives. A replica of nitro glycerin. Home made version. Very
inexpensive and very plentiful. Right here in Metro. We’re not sure who or why. Street Intel hints at
some kid, wannabe scientist, at the local college thinks he can do this. In fact, the college is the connection.
Over the past year, an alleged suicide and supposed overdose may be related.”
“Okay, sure. Stuff like that is possible. Any one with the use of the internet, a little techy know how,
can develop just about anything.” She took another gulp of coffee. “Mmm, love this stuff.” She looked
him in the eyes. He blinked first. “So what? Am I being pulled into an investigation?”
“Highly possible. Your expertise is exceptional.” He drank his coffee and took his time.
“No more than yours,” she answered, batting her eyes with affection.
“No, I’m no hero, Flo,” he deflected. “But, you’ll always be my hero.” He held up hand. She was
about to speak. She stopped. He continued. “A special ops team. You and me. Working together.” He
glanced out the window. A light rain started to fall.
“I’m in,” she said, her lips touching the coffee cup. “We’re a good team, professionally. Your
methodical patience and my explosive personality.” She laughed. “Let’s bust some doors down.”
“I always liked your spontaneous nature,” he told her. “Until you left. I know you wanted your space,
your freedom. That’s you’re nature. A free spirit, doing what you want to do, whenever you want to do it. I
don’t think you can be tied down to one man.” Another staring moment followed. Thoughts of regret
exchanged between them. Memories of passion were rekindled.
“The KY jelly killer?” She asked, lingering on his comments. Red lips caressed the edge of the coffee
cup. “Strange things happening around the college. Is this case falling on us?”
“Yes,” he answered, losing himself in a flood of old images. “We’ve called him or her the KY jelly
killer because of trace evidence found at the scene. Someone, maybe the college kid. Has oxidized store
bought KY jelly. The goo goes through rapid decomposition into home made nitroglycerin. The stuff takes
on a very explosive personality.” He took a sip of his coffee, not risking taking his eyes off her. “Requires
container pressure to ignite. Can you imagine putting the material in a syringe? Going to the local drug
store and injecting the shelf products. The binary composition is stable until the tube is squeezed. Under
pressure it ignites.”
“The ensuing energy transfer,” she explained, tongue circling her lips as she thought. “Having been
stored for some time. The friction, the build up of heat transference and so forth. Upon squeezing the
enclosure, would come quickly to eruption.” She cleared her throat. “I mean detonation. The initial sudden
expansion would dissipate with the expanding explosion.” She winked. “Amazing. Purified water,
glycerin, hydroxyethylcellulose, chlorhexidine gluconate and so on. Transform it with nitric acid synthesis
and bang!” Her eyes tracked his. “The college is central to this issue.”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it, Flo.” His eyes admired her. “Nitric acid synthesis of KY jelly.”
“Sure could disrupt your sex life,” she quipped. “Talk about an explosive personality.” She scanned his
features. “Plus, Metro has one of the largest production facilities for those pharmaceuticals. Particularly,
petroleum jelly products.” She polished off the coffee. “And, the device could be easily smuggled onto an
aircraft.” She thought about the implications. “Terrorism? Beside, the eco-system. The facility is right
there on the inter-coastal waterway.”
“Besides the tragic loss of life,” he replied, “contamination of the surrounding basin and bay area would
be catastrophic. Cost millions in tax payers’ dollars. Cleanup would last for years.”
“So, what are we waiting for?” she stared with sincere intensity. “Let’s go get the slippery character.”
“Now you’re talking, Flo.” His smile spoke of his appreciation for her high energy level. “Let’s start
today. Actually, tonight, if you don’t have plans.” He was hoping she didn’t. “Get a change of clothes and
hit the street. I was thinking of taking a look at some of our local eco-activists. At the college.”
“The tree huggers, the mammal smoochers?” She stood with grace and ease. “You’re on. I mean, I’m in.
Let’s do it. See you at motor pool. Nineteen hundred hours?” She winked.
“Domestic terrorism,” he answered with a sly smirk. “Convoluted logic. Destroy the facility, save the
bay. They forget the ensuing explosion will disrupt the very thing they’re trying to save. They’re the least
suspect, but have the most to gain.” Nineteen hundred hours came and went fast.
“Like you used to say,” She said, “it’s no so much a who done it, as it’s a why done it.”
“They hide here on campus,” he explained, peering through night vision goggles. “Using the cover of
free speech, cloak of academia, and a very liberal administration. The Techno-Hierarchy of Environmental
Youth, T.H.E.Y, has become very vocal and active.” Both he and Flo were tactically dressed in black
clothing and light weight windbreakers. Shoulder holsters held their duty issue .380 caliber automatics.
“Lemme see,” she sighed, bored with stakeouts, but not the company she kept. “What’re the little life
forms up to?” Her almond eyes strafed the landscape. “T.H.E.Y. huh? At it again. What about T.H.E.M.”
“Not active this semester,” he replied. “See the one in the white tee shirt, the expensive fashionably
worn-out jeans?” he pointed with one finger. “Blonde hair, shoulder length. Smoking the cigarette.”
“Yep,” she answered, peering through the night goggles. “Wealthy kid, right?”
“Rich New England family,” he replied, sipping his latte. “Dad’s a U.S. Senator. Lot of wealthy kids
flock to this college. Trying to find themselves. Kinda like we used be. Only we weren’t rich.” He glanced
sideways to admire her. Lit by the pale glow of a lone streetlight, a golden hue encircled her face.
“Stop staring.” She smiled, studying the suspect through the goggles. She could feel the heat of his gaze.
“You’re making me edgy. I might wanna end this stakeout and take you home with me.”
“God, I could only hope,” he sighed.
“So, where are they getting the nitric acid?” she quizzed.
“Campus police Intel,” he started, watching her manipulate the night vision goggles. The long slender
fingers. Red paint on the nails. Focus, discipline, he thought to himself. “Working with our Intel, says it’s
coming from the chem lab. Campus store sold out of KY. Can’t keep it on the shelves. Real bright and
gifted students right?” she nodded, he continued. “It’s a liberal arts college supported by tax payer dollars.
His tone oozed sarcasm. “Which means, they can waste resources. Limited internal controls over
chemicals. Students run the program. Campus police do the best they can given the political environment.”
“Yep, don’t make waves. Money, donors, right?” She asked, lowered the goggles. Stared into his eyes.
“That’s the size of it.” He met her gaze. She went back to studying the target. “Regardless of whether
the cops work on campus, or in the city. They know what’s going on. The administration wants assets not
arrests. No doubt a cover-up. Remember the last campus death? We helped the campus police. It was ruled
an overdose at big outdoor party. Probability? It was really a homicide. Did anyone care? No.”
“That’s the way it goes,” she commented. “Our target is moving toward a while van. He’s followed by
four others.” She reached for the radio. “Dispatch, this is Alpha thee four five. Run me a check on the
following license plate.” She gave the details. “Let’s go big guy,” she said, “they’re on the move.”
“What ever you say, Sarge.” He started the unmarked car. The engine hummed and they eased out of
the parking lot. “I got a bad feeling about this. I’m alerting the SWAT commander just in case.”
Following the van, she noticed a bumper sticker that read “Give Peace a Chance”. On the main highway,
they followed the van from a discreet distance. In a short time, the van traveled a long stretch of the major
highway to the bay area port facilities. The industrial park was situated adjacent the local airport. Planes
landed and took off as darkness closed in. Jet engines roared in the background.
Bright lights of passing cars mingled with the orange glow of street lamps. Ahead, the sprawling
petroleum complex ended the day’s operations. Petrol-Glide Industries was a formidable member of the
community. One of their main production efforts pertained to personal health products. Shipping and
receiving came in by way of the expansive intercoastal waterway. Huge white metal vats, filled to capacity,
lined the grounds of the vast compound. Millions of gallons of clear jelly-like substance sat in shiny silver
storage tanks. The van found a deserted and unguarded dirt road and slipped off the highway.
“Lights out, on foot, Flo,” Ridge advised. “We’ll park here. Head out on foot. See where they went.
Bring the digital camera and the night vision equipment, please.” He parked and secured the car. They left
on foot. He held a twelve gauge police issue shotgun. She had a AR-15 police rifle slung over one shoulder.
“We could start a war,” she whispered in the darkness. “With all this firepower.” She nudged close to
him, felt his warmth. “You know where you’re going?”
“Not only that,” he added with a hushed tone, “there’s an airport across the fence line. With that stuff,
you think security would catch a bunch K-Y tubes?”
“Yep, take down an airliner.” She considered. “Or fly one into another big building somewhere. Scary
thought, Ridge.” Her whisper was like the foggy air. Wet, moist. “Our college kids are the K-Y killers?”
“Looks that way,” he murmured. “More than one. Higher Ed at its best. Probably experimenting. A dry
run or two. Now the big stuff.” As they approached a small clearing, lights flashed with sunny brightness. T
“How’d that happen?” She cursed. “We’re not rookies. What the heck? We’re surrounded?”
“We took the obvious trail,” he answered with a frown. “Thinking they were headed to the plant. They
made us at some point. Should’ve been cleverer than we were.” He keyed his mike. “Dispatch, lock on to
GPS signal. Helicopter, K-9, officers need assistance. Alert airport security.” His voice was low, quiet.
“Never should on yourself,” she told him in a hushed tone. “Let’s be quick about this, Ridge.”
“Put the radio down, officer,” a youthful sounding voice came from the shadows. The lights hid the
person in the prevailing darkness. When he dropped his radio, having locked open the mike, the voice
added, “Glad you’re here. We need one more experimental body. But, two will do just fine.” Movement
followed. Three student-types emerged. All had blonde dirty shoulder length shaggy hair. Sandals on their
feet. They wore the expensive stylish poverty look of worn jeans. Tattered holes in the knees, on the
buttocks. Faded flannel shirts, rolled at wrist. Died tee shirts underneath. Arrogant smiles on their faces.
“Let’s save a lot of time,” Ridge offered, smooth self-assured resonance. “You’re all under arrest.
Surrender and let’s make this easy for everyone. Additional officers are on the way as we speak.”
“Can’t do that, pig,” one who seemed intelligent spoke. “The revolution is on, man. You and the hot
female pig are gonna help.” He pointed a syringe with an evil grin. Sinister voice. He turned to the others.
“Hey, dudes, check out the female. Man, we’ll have some fun with her.” He told Ridge, “Drop the guns.”
“You mean these?” Ridge feigned ignorance. “Sorry, can’t surrender our guns. Against department
policy.” At that point, the two other students stepped forward. They held guns instead of needles. “Easy
now, I’ll set the shotgun down as a peace gesture, okay.” The brain trust nodded. With smooth motion he
set the twelve gauge on the ground. Flo did the same with the rifle. The two students lowered their guns.
“Drop your guns!” Ridge yelled. When he came back up from a crouched position, his pistol was out in
flash. A blur, quick draw, surprise. “Do it now!” his voice was animated with command and authority. His
gun pointed with a final warning. Flo had hers out too, just as fast. The suspects made their move.
“No way pig,” one cussed and raised his gun. The other screamed something hostile. Did the same.
Boom, boom, Ridge fired at the one to his left. His action was sure and swift. Boom, boom, came in
rapid succession behind him. Flo fired in simultaneous movement. Two bullets from each hit intended
targets. Both students had brought their guns up to fire at him and Flo. Red holes appeared on white tee
shirts. Center mass, dead on target, left of the sternum. A crimson eruption. Blood spurt out, the bodies fell
backwards. The two were out of action. They sprawled lifeless, with fixed gazes to the sky. Threatening
guns hit the ground. The ring leader dropped his needle and began to cry. He threw up his hands and went
to his knees. He trembled and begged. Sirens blared in the background. A helicopter zoomed over head.
“My god, Ridge,” she blurted out. Held her gun on target. Alert, ready, peaked. “We shot college kids.
Damn it. What the hell were they thinking? A flipping revolution? Idiots were gonna shoot us.”
“It was a good shoot, Flo,” he tried to comfort her. “I take full responsibility. Whatever happens,
happens.” He scanned the scene, his gun still pointed. “Secure him,” he said to her. She cuffed the leader.
“They made choices. Committed crimes. Socio-economic status makes no difference. They broke the law.
We did our job.” Together, they cuffed the suspects, removed the guns and needles. Made the scene safe.
“Oh, it’s gonna be a long day,” she breathed a heavy sigh. “A shoot team. Crime lab. Supervisors.
Internal Affairs. The press. God, I hate politicians. Never ends, never will.” They hugged for a second.
“I hate lawyers,” he answered with a sour taste. “But, we’re both gonna need contact one. Just in case.”
He scanned the scene. Noted the bodies. “We need to secure the crime scene. A cop’s job is never done.”
As other officers arrived, Flo ordered some to set up a perimeter, protect the scene and help safeguard
evidence. Others were told to stand by and assist emergency medical services.
“Let’s check the van,” Ridge patted her shoulder. He saw a detective arrive as they walked to the van.
Throwing open the doors they observed several containers of nitric acid. There’re sufficient quantities to
set off an environmental disaster and destroy the complex. The airport would’ve been in jeopardy as well.
“Look at this,” Flo pointed. With a gloved hand, she picked up a manuscript. A heavy bundle of papers.
She held it up for both to read. “Plus, enough chemicals to start a small war. Kill the local ecosystem.”
“Ah, the marvels of higher education, go figure,” he said with a sour tone. “Is our educational system
unique, or what? That’s academic freedom for you. Sometimes you wonder whose watching the store.” He
glanced back at the approaching detective. “You know we’ll have to surrender our guns. Go on
administrative leave. Swear under oath. We know the drill, don’t we Flo?”
“Yeah,” she said with a frown. “A cop’s job is never done.” She looked at him. Her eyes met his. “Well,
we’ll have a lot time to rekindle things. Experiment with some binary compositions of our own.”
A stack of papers, held together with a large plastic spiral, said, “Graduate Thesis – An Explosive
Personality – The Nitric Acid Synthesis of KY Jelly”. Underneath the title, in parenthesis, they read on.
The wording added, “How to Smuggle Personal Products onto An Airliner”.
Knight Checks Queen

By Randy Gonzalez
“Nice view, bad shot angle” he commented to himself with quiet satisfaction. From his vantage point,
Paladin Payne had a clear shot at his target. “She’s wide open. Easy prey. The only problem,” he noted
under his breath, “too many people, and too many witnesses. No guns. Too much commotion, even with a
silencer. Knife up close and personal, perhaps. From the back, through the ribs into the heart muscle.
Maybe. Garrote from behind? Not here. Or, poison over lunch, a possibility? Arrogant self-indulgence
endangers us all.” A grim smirk formed over cruel lips on a maturely handsome face. “Some people think
this is a wonderful world. Others are afraid it might be the truth. If the word is given, she will be taken
out, with extreme prejudice. We all face that, sooner or later. Death is footsteps behind us trying to catch
up.” He thought the coffee was particularly good today. London was a fun place to be.
He was sitting in a fashionable coffee shop. Comfortably elegant, the coffee bar was inside a shopping
mall outside London. Earthy colors of brown, beige and chocolate mingled to create a subdued
atmosphere. His blue blazer, with gold buttons, matched the slacks. They were expensive. Soft black
leather loafers gave him a casual but tailored look. The long sleeve white shirt had button down collars.
His wrist watch was a Patek Philippe. Worth two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. It had a vintage rose gold
dial and brown alligator wrist strap. With a platinum rectangular case, the watch spoke of elegance, style
and sophistication. A dapper dresser, he appreciated the finer things in life. Dark roast espresso coffee was
among those. In addition to nice clothes, he enjoyed good food, fast cars and dangerous women. Aside
from the emotional baggage, he’d only been physically injured by women. Chiseled good looks, toned
toughness and mannerly behavior, got him into warm receptive places. Steel grey eyes and a salt and
pepper tint gave him flirting attention. But, professional paranoia kept most people at arms length.
“One must always have a reactionary gap tied to an effective escape route,” he mused, as he studied his
target. He could see her through the huge window panes of the boutique. “Proper planning prevents poor
performance was something to live by. How many things in life does that apply to?” Sarcasm and
cynicism commingled in his thoughts. He sensed something. What was it? A steely stare scanned the
commercial and human landscape. Shoppers huddled, lovers touched, and children’s shrill voices echoed.
Rich coffees smells mingled with food cooking in fast fool restaurants. Distractions were everywhere.
Bang! A sound erupted nearby. Like a muffled gun shot, the noise popped behind his back. Not good
he thought. He tensed with serious focus. With deliberate skill, his right hand instinctively went inside his
coat. Training kicked in. Train like you play and play like you train. Kill or be killed, never hesitate.
Fingers wrapped around a Sig Sauer P232 auto pistol. Double action, the stainless steel gun held eight
rounds. One in the chamber and seven in the magazine. A .380 caliber, the pistol weighed less than a
pound fully loaded. Slim, compact and durable, he’d never missed a target. The barrel had a silencer.
Ready to draw, he turned slowly in his chair. In a split second, he could aim and fire ruthlessly. He rotated
in his seat. As his eyes stop, he saw his target.
“Nice, kid,” he said with a faint grin. Rugged features relaxed. “You almost got one in the forehead.
A small boy squealed with joy a helium filled balloon. The smile held its place across his thin lips. The
boy’s mom, embarrassed, attempted to recover from the sudden attention. She was good looking he
thought. He recovered too and fantasized. His hand relaxed and reached for the coffee cup. Just then, the
potential target of his mission moved. She had just exited an expensive women’s clothing store. The shop,
like Victoria’s Secrets, specialized in extraordinarily expensive lingerie. Body guards followed from a
discreet distance. He continued to make mental notes. Her every movement in body and expression were
recorded. Tall, blonde, trim and attractive, she radiated a sensual quality.
“Base, this is Lookout, over,” a body guard said into his cuff sleeve. “All units alert, U.S. Queen is on
the move.” The officers hovered around her and moved quickly. “Move the car to the main entrance.”
“Roger that, over,” the base station’s human voice echoed in the body guard’s ear piece.
“Base, Lookout here, over,” the body guard radio back. “Standby, U.S. Queen is entering another store.
We’ll be a few more minutes, over.”
“Potentially inept, inattentive, distracted. They’re nervous. Typical. They must be new to this
assignment,” again Payne whispered to himself. His mind calculated time, distance, cover, spatial
alignments and so on. “Their security detail could be comprised he thought. She would’ve insisted on
junior security officers. Probably all single good looking young men. I’ll bet hubby number four gets sent
on business trips frequently.” He carefully watched the woman, making mental notations. “Always go
with maturity and experience. Hire professionals.” He smiled confidently. “Any minute, I should be
receiving a phone call.” On cue, his cell phone vibrated. He slowly took a sip of his espresso, showing no
hurry to answer. Time, talk tactics. Patience requires fortitude and stamina. “I’m listening,” he said with a
devilish grin, after flipping open the phone.
“Black knight,” the gruff officious voice said. “You have a green light. Suspicious are confirmed. The
business deal must go through before another incident. Recovery is essential.” There was brief pause, as
the owner of the voice breathed into the phone. A heavy sigh echoed. “Transaction’s complete. The usual
amount for special services. Your account in Geneva’s been upgraded. Continue as per agreement. No
loose ends. We were never here and this never happened. Good bye.” Click and that was it. The other
end was silent.
“Done,” he replied and closed the phone. Cold, quick and deadly. Objective not personal. Again, to
himself, he said, “Knight checks queen. Green light the sanction. One less politician and traitor to worry
about. One less leak in the governmental bureaucracy. The alleged checks and balances are frail. The
ends do in fact justify the means. Moral imperative are situational at best.” He glanced at his watch, “Too
early for a martini. To the car we go. A quick drive to the country to visit a mansion.”
A maze of electronic countermeasures interconnected with data relays. Secret Satellites in geo-sync
orbit received and transmitted scrambled information. Uplinks and downlinks spoke to each through
multidimensional communications grid. At the other end of Payne’s encrypted conversation, two men sat
in a darkened room. The corner office was large, ornately furnished and comfortably official. Illuminated
by one small 19th century style desk lamp, one man sat behind a huge oak desk.
Dim lighting kept intentional shadows in place. Cloak and dagger mysteries were fully operational.
Two men spoke knowing the room had been sanitized earlier. Even at the heart of the intelligence
community, no one took any chances. At Langley, Virginia, the CIA case officer and supervisor discussed
their project.
“Can we trust him on this one?” one asked the other. He was sitting in front of the desk in brown
leather overstuffed chair. “I mean, I know he’s good and reliable. But, this project is very sensitive. In
fact, it’s very dangerous for us all. Failure is absolutely no option.”
“Are you kidding me?” The one who spoke on the phone answered. He was sitting behind the desk.
“He’s the best. Used to have your job, head of covert operations. Now, he’s a rogue warrior, a ronin, and
he’s on our side, thank God. He’s gotta gun, superbly skilled, and will travel anywhere anytime for his
country. Naturally, he’s paid well for services rendered. No family, few friends, he’s an island unto
himself.” He thought for a moment. “It’s not him I’m worried about. I don’t trust the President.”
“I don’t either,” the other answered. “He’s interfering with the Intel ops. Yet, a rogue knight may
ultimately figure this out. Much rests on a lone gunman. Operation Check Mate cannot fail.”
“I understand that all too well,” the man behind the desk replied. “In the last operation, we lost ten
million and three agents died. Vital information to the war on terrorism was comprised. Troops in Iraq
have been comprised. The leak came from the Ambassador’s office in London. An investigation was
conducted. The mole has to be the Ambassador. Everything points to her.”
“We better be right,” the other answered. “We’re sending an assassin against one of our own. The
President really blundered on this appointment. He wasn’t thinking with the head on his shoulders. I sure
hope his liaison with that movie star was worth it. The cost to our intelligence operations has been severe.”
Exiting the mall to the parking area, Payne produced a brown briar pipe. The ritual of pipe lighting
followed. A black leather pouch held a smooth aromatic cherry blend. The gold plated lighter had an
insignia. It bore the image of a medieval knight bearing a sword and shield. The knight was slaying a
dragon. He pressed the blue-green butane flame to the tobacco in the pipe’s bowl. His quarry was a
politician and a diplomat. To him, politicians were basically useless. He lit his pipe, puffed a few clouds
of bluish smoke, and visually searched for his Mercedes. A few spaces away, there she was, a Mercedes
McLaren SLR. One of the fastest cars on the highway. The SLR’s shiny black surface glistened with rain
droplets. She could do two hundred miles an hour with little effort. Special accoutrements of bullet
resistant material protected the exterior body and windows. Naturally, the windows were tinted.
Paladin Payne was the hunter stalking his prey. No amount of pompous grandstanding, political
backstabbing or bogus promises to continuants, would protect this politician. Didn’t matter whether they
male or female. Matters of national security justified the means. Regardless of what it took, at the end of
the game, who won mattered the most. Cautious, careful and clever, Payne knew exactly who he was after.
His email had already contained a dossier on the target. Formerly of the U.S. Army Special Forces, he
retired from the Central Intelligence Agency. During the week, in the U.S., he taught psychology at the
local community college. He consulted for the local police, profiling criminals.
During the weekends, he sometimes disappeared for days at a time. Going to exotic places, he plied his
special talents. And, at a place called the Farm, in the remote woods of Virginia, he taught new recruits
how to kill. Still, on other occasions, he carried out contract assignments for his previous employer. For
Paladin Payne, life was a chess game. He enjoyed playing immensely. The game had been very profitable.
A knight is another word for paladin. This solider of fortunate was akin to the Japanese ronin of ancient
times. A master less samurai, Payne had no connection to the complexities of bureaucratic organizations.
Thus, he shared no loyalty to those in power. He was loyal only to himself. A loner, he was a stranger to
long term relationships. Paladin knew pain throughout his entire life, personally and professionally. One
jagged edge after another. Shards of broken promises stuck to him. Yet, such experiences had honed his
senses and strengthened his skills. He knew how to clean up the messes politicians created. There were
times, for the sake of national security, he brought that pain to others. Today was no different than many
other days that preceded this one. The retired colonel was about to exact justice in the special way he knew
how. One loud mouthed pompous elected official said the wrong thing at the wrong time. As a result,
people in another part of the world died torturous deaths. They just didn’t get it.
He sat in his Mercedes a discreet distance from the wrought iron entrance. Flipping through the data
file in his cell phone, pictures flashed on the screen. Winfield House was the first picture. Located in
Regent’s Park, this was the home of the U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James. The mansion sat on
twelve acres of pristine forest land. A fifteen foot iron gate protected the main entrance. Surrounding the
compound was huge stone fence. Electronic surveillance systems did most of the work in providing on site
security. A police detail of two cops stood watch at the gate.
“What’d you think, Jade?” He said to the beautiful Eurasian woman net to him. She was his cover
companion in London. They’d worked together before and shared more than assignments. Long black hair
hung down her back. A short tight black dress clung to her lean taut figure. He liked the matching stiletto
heels with straps around the ankles. And, he relished in knowing Jade Neko was every bit as professional
as he. With her, he could forget about painful things. He longed for the orient. “Your thoughts?”
“I think,” she answered in a thick British accent, “she’s easy. Security is lax. Too much confidence.
She’s arrogant, decadent and careless with herself.” She enjoyed his warm hand on her thigh. His fingers
tracing the outline of a dragon tattoo. “Poison in champagne would be my preference.”
The U.S. Ambassador to Great Britain was Golda Edge. She was a famous movie star. Her legend,
somewhat fading, carried her into the political arena. Outspoken, she lashed at oil companies while she
drove gas guzzling expensive cars. Payne thought movie stars should stay out of politics. To him, they
were naïve celluloid manifestations of the public’s hidden fantasies. They knew nothing of the real world
outside of Hollywood. In his mind, Tinsel Town was a plastic world of make believe.
Ambassador Edge went by Goldie to her friends. She was flamboyant, wealthy and highly opinionated.
She never allowed the facts to confuse her version of the truth. Her appointment by the president was a
dicey decision. But, in the world of politics, symbolism over substance was often more important.
“The business of government,” Payne said to Jade, “makes for strange bedfellows.”
“Were you talking about me or you?” She was quick to respond. They smiled and held hands.
“Neither,” he replied, putting his arm around her toned shoulders. “I don’t consider either of us strange.
We fit nicely together. And, I enjoy our assignments.”
“So do I,” she breathed a sigh of pleasure. Rubbing his thigh in return, she added, “Now, how do you
want to play this out? Stealthy, or up close and personal?” Her cat-like reflexes, competent capabilities
and deadly precision had always impressed him. And, he couldn’t forget her other skills as a woman.
“Up close and personal,” he answered, leaning closer to her. They kissed. Her smooth soft lips were
succulent and dangerously seductive. The smell of her was intoxicating. He thought of cherry blossoms in
full bloom. Delicate petals of the flower opening down the center, revealing a secret place. “I want to
move in close. I want to see her face when I do it. Poison sounds good. I have a small supply of an
untraceable substance. Instant cardiac arrest. We’ve field tested a newer version. Quick, silent and deadly.
A medical examiner’s worst nightmare.” He reached inside his coat. A gold colored envelope slid across
Jade’s lap. “How would you like to go to a party?”
“U.S. Embassy seal,” she commented, her voice laced with British inflection. “How nice. We’re going
somewhere? Thank you.” She teased. Almond eyes spoke of Japanese heritage, commingled with English
upbringing. Long slender fingers opened the envelope. Red lacquered nails knifed the edge of the flap.
“A reception. A splendid thing to do. Black tie. At the mansion. What shall I wear? Decisions,
decisions. I’ll have to go shopping you know. Something daring? Or, something discreet? Let’s see, this
is a business expense, right?”
“Absolutely, a business expense of course,” he agreed. Another kiss. “How about something daring?
We need distractions. Here, use mine.” He pulled a slim black leather bi-fold wallet from his jacket. An
American Express card appeared.
“Lancer Lovejoy,” she read the name on the card. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” An eyebrow rose
over perfectly applied green eye shadow. “Always like that name. The implications provoke the
imagination. Do we have time for a leisurely lunch at my place, Lancer?” She taunted him with a darting
pink tongue.
“I certainly hope so,” he said, refusing to discipline his inclinations. “Some day, I want to run off and
disappear with you. Maybe an uncharted desert island.”
“I wish you would,” she answered, stretching in feline fashion and wrapping herself around him. “You
better drive fast. Hope you’re hungry.” He was hunger and he drove fast.
The stately mansion was ornate, historically reflective and bedecked for the party. Ambassador Edge
often went over-board for such festive occasions. In Hollywood style, she was outlandish, catering to every
possible culinary taste and fashion. Music carried a thumping beat and demand people dance. Champagne
flowed freely, and the food was extravagant. From head to toe, the ambassador wore a golden gown that
trailed the floor. Her blonde hair was pushed high on her head. The fingernails were gold as well. Her
husband, as usual was no where to be found. She probably sent him out of the country so she could party
all night. Dignitaries of one sort or another mingled in the crowded grand ballroom.
“Given my seven day rule,” Payne explained, as he and Jade danced. They cuddled close. Their cover
mysteriously fabricated as foreign journalists. “Surveillance, study and strategy, for seven days. After
careful analysis, if everything’s still the same, I do the sanction.”
“In this case?” Jade flashed a sensual gaze. “You’re not certain are you?”
“No,” he whispered close her ear. She tingled at the feel of his warm breath. “Something’s not right.
This is Friday. A death occurs. An assassination turns into martyrdom. Followed by a resurrection and the
imagery of a fallen heroine. A lot of news coverage. Washington’s got it wrong. Bad Intel. If we play
this out, we’re not the knights in the game. The moves are all scripted. A deception within deceptions.
Langley’s being manipulated. We’ve become pawns.”
“By whom? And, for what ends?” The words dripped from her mouth. “Her husband?”
“Yes,” he breathed heavily. They spun on the dance floor, gripping with clutching motions. Their
tango was alluring to envious eyes. “The jilted king. A devious wife with wanton proclivities.”
“This is a domestic dispute,” Jade grinned devilishly. “Her death gets headlines. The President gets
coverage in the mourning process, along with the husband. This is about the business of politics and the
politics of business.”
“You’re deliciously correct,” he sighed holding her arched back, timing the music with precise rhythmic
thrust. “He’s a major contributor to the re-election campaign. The President’s down in the polls. They’re
both manipulating the intelligence reports. Each gets what he wants. A husband scorned, a politician
embarrassed. Dangerous combination with a simple solution. Instead of knight checks queen, the pawns
decide the divorce settlement. She’s worth more dead than alive. The husband pays out nothing, but gains
everything. The President covers an indiscretion and climbs in the polls.”
“Imagine that,” Jade quipped. “A husband who can’t be trusted, with a wife who can never be trusted.
Go figure the relationships between men and women.” She ran fingernail daggers up and down his back.
One of her fingers tapped the golden signet ring on his right hand. A black onyx inlay portrayed the
knight of a chess piece. Underneath, a crystalline quantity of special cyanide rested. A simple direct twitch
of the finger opened the tiny compartment. Slight of hand movement was required to execute the
maneuver. He had done it before. So had she. They were a remarkable team and noticed the graceful
movement of the waiter. Two champagne flutes on a silver tray moved toward the ambassador and her
husband. Music increased in tempo. Paladin and Jade swirled in the direction of the intended couple. The
waiter crossed near the dance floor. Paladin and Jade danced around him in fluid motion. No one ever saw
the movement. Not even the waiter. A wave of a hand, a feint and subtle gesture. The white powder fell
into the golden liquid. Bubbling, the expensive champagne accepted the intrusion. Cloaked by its
chemical nature, the deadly microscopic granules mixed with the fluid. Traces vanished. Submerged,
waiting and ready to strike, the poison strained in cocked anticipation.
“How do you know he’ll drink the right one?” Jade kissed him lightly on the neck. Their dancing
slowed to a waltz. “It’s a gamble if the wrong move is made. The knight checks the queen, instead of the
king. A sure and certain check mate is required.”
“Watch carefully,” he answered, holding her momentarily at arms length. Her breathing increased with
the tempo, while her body tensed in readiness. “The husband is right handed. She sits to his right. He will
present the champagne flute closest to her with his right hand.” Paladin rotated Jade in a clockwise
fashion. Like a feather to his touch, she moved with graceful elegance. “Playing the gentleman, he’ll serve
her the glass, assuming the game is in play.”
“The king attempts to check the queen.” Jade traced the outline of his face with a long finger. “Yet, he
will drink his last toast to her, his intended victim. Two knights checkmate the king instead. Game over.
No longer pawns, but rogues whose gaming was a gamble.”
“We work so well together,” he answered. “Later, the male knight and the female knight, once again,
become as one.” He turned her in the direction of the target. “Watch this.”
“You’re right,” Jade answered. Her voice always alluring and enticing to him. “The husband’s hand
grips the slender moistened flute and offers it to his wife. He chose as you predicted.”
“Her lips touch the edge of the potent vessel,” he sighed, looking into Jade’s eyes. “They toast each
other. She drinks. Swallows. Her eyes dart to a handsome young man nearby. She scans him up and
down. A smile breaks over her face.”
“But,” Jade continued their joint observation of unfolding events, “he hastens the conclusion. In a rush,
he gulps his own refreshment. Content with his own hurried revenge. Satisfied he has won. His honor
restored, he fails in making his move too quickly.” Paladin kissed her small hand and held it in his.
A hush fell over the crowd, as a look of horror came over the ambassador’s face. She screamed. Her
husband, shocked by the pain, clutched his throat in horrid anguish. He tried to speak, but the poison was
instantaneous. Both his hands dug at shirt collar. Buttons flew off. With a gasp, followed by gurgling
sounds, his body convulsed. A ghostly expression filled his face. He smashed across the dinning table.
Glasses, cups and dishes shattered. A few quick spasms and he was dead. Chaos ensued. Cell phones
came out of pockets. Calls were made. Security personnel panicked. Sirens blared in the distance.
The next day, in the darkened office at Langley, Virginia, an email would be opened. The senior case
officer would read it. The message would say, “Original moves based on false assumptions. Game
reconfigured. Knights checkmate king. Awaiting new game.” He rotated to one side in his swivel desk
chair. With a smile, he said to himself, “He figured it out. He’s good.” His hand reached for the mouse.
The cursor found the delete button and the message vanished.
“So, darling,” Jade began, “what was this game about?”
“All games we play,” he answered, “are about love or money. This one was about love. The kind that
gets distracted and out of control because we get selfish.”
“Fascinating how things come to an end,” she replied. “Game over until next time.”
“How about trip to Tokyo?” Paladin asked Jade. The powerful engine of the Mercedes roared as they
left the mansion. “We could visit the family. What’d ya say? You be the queen in our game.”
“Sounds wonderful, let’s do it,” Jade replied with excitement. Her hand stroked his face, tracing the
handsome features. Her head fell to his shoulder and she rested. “Knight checks queen?”
Flotsam and Jetsam by Randy Gonzalez
“If you’re sleeping with your partner,” Blaze Bliss said in a wistful tone, “does that constitute sexual
harassment on the job?” she spun in the swivel chair. Adjusted the surveillance screen. The monitor
blinked, a remote camera panned, tilted and zoomed in. “Or, is it misuse of government property?”
“Only if you complain,” Christian Cross, her partner, answered. A glint of satisfaction on his trusting
face. Likewise he adjusted a twin television unit. His handsome face side glanced to her. Brown eyes spent
a few seconds scanning her, up and down. Admiring her talents. “Then again, things aren’t always as they
seem. You know, looks can be deceiving.” He figured something was amiss, one way or the other.
“I’m not complaining, Christy,” she reassured, teasing his name into her thoughts. “Not yet, of course.”
She watched with growing fascination as a suspect moved about.
“Thank god,” he threw back. “You’re brazen Blaze. I was wondering. Now, I’m relieved. ”
“No, you did that last night.” Blaze pressed a control. The camera zeroed in on a black attaché case. Her
long black hair shined, hung at her strong shoulders.
“I think it was mutual.” His smile remembered the previous evening. She was long, angular, fit as a pro
athlete. Almond colored eyes, olive skin smooth as silk. He wondered. What was her heritage, Spanish,
Italian, Greek? God only knows. She looked good in the low light of the surveillance van.
“You got that right,” she breathed a satisfied sigh. “Why the black case?” She pointed at the screen,
turning to him. “Yesterday, he had the brown case.”
“Shoot a picture,” he answered, patting his close cropped sandy hair. “Zoom in. Our boss at I.C.E. will
want an update.” A remote camera blinked a warning light on his console. “Uh oh, we’ve got company.
Uniformed beat cop. We’re parked next to a fire hydrant. Blaze?” he searched her big brown eyes. “You
were driving. How’d do that? We don’t need a confrontation with the locals.”
“I was distracted by my partner,” she defended with playful inflection. “And, I got a news flash. That’s
not a real beat cop.” She giggled with broad smile, became nervous. “Clever disguise for him.”
“What? Who?” He whipped around, reaching for his pistol. The gun came out of a holster from the
middle of his back. “You know him?”
“Easy big guy. Holster that thing. This one’s on our side. At least I think so. Couldn’t mistake that
swagger,” she answered, with an admiring tone. “Or, the face. Yep, I know him.”
“Okay, I give,” he demand, a tinge of jealous resonance drifting on a cresting wave of displeasure. “Old
boyfriend? Wait, you said he wasn’t a real cop.” Eyes demanding answers. “Blaze, what’s up?”
“CIA,” she replied. “He’s not an old boyfriend. A brief acquaintance so to speak. Sorry, Chris. Been a
while since I’ve seen him.” She used the manual controls, grabbing the joy stick in a firm grip. Jacked the
camera mechanism and shot in close, tilted up and down. She heaved a delightful sigh as if remembering.
“We’ll talk about that later.” He moved toward the driver’s side. “Who is he? Besides CIA.”
“Paladin Payne,” she blushed. “Uh, senior case officer out of Langley. Kind of a rogue character at the
Agency. Some say legendary. Does a lot of special assignments, like counterterrorism.”
“Well, what the hell’s he doing here, Blaze?” He projected emphasis on her name getting her attention.
“Don’t know, Chris,” she snapped back. “Are you jealous? Come on, he’s just an old acquaintance.”
She squirmed in the chair. Squeaking noises came out of each move. She crossed her muscled legs,
uncrossed and crossed again. Got nervous, pondering personal remembrances.
“No, I’m not,” he argued, trying to convince himself. “It’s just he appears out of thin air. Right here.”
Together, they huddled around a monitor and watched the cop. In full patrol uniformed, starched and
polished, the man walked up to the curbside of the van. From his back pocket, he pulled out his ticket book.
In character, his glance up and down the sidewalk, casual and detached. He looked and acted like a street
cop. Had all the subtle indications of a street savvy officer. Keen instincts, steady eyes, ready hands.
“Nice van,” the cop said. “I’m sure you’re recording this. The tinted windows are blocking my plain
view of the contents. A statutory violation. Not to mention the fire zone infraction.” He pretended to write
the ticket. Pedestrians hurried by, ignored the officer. “How ya doing, Blaze? I haven’t met Chris yet.” His
grey eyes strafed the side of the van. “You know, you feds, could at least come up with a catchy name for
spec ops van. It’s conspicuously unmarked. Wanna let me in? We don’t have much time.”
“Damn you, Payne,” Blaze hissed into a microphone. A tiny speaker on the side mirror spoke to him.
“You’re blowing our cover.” What’s the rush she thought?
“You’re kidding, right?” Paladin joked. “You stand out like the fox guarding the hen house. Sitting here,
next to a fire hydrant. Don’t move for hours on a busy street. No tickets for parking violations. No one gets
in our out. Paint job’s new and shiny. Cheap wheel covers. You’re either the FBI or I.C.E. Come on. Give
me a break. You’ve been made. I’m just playing along so the average citizen can feel good. You know they
like to feel safe.” His cynical nature eased to the surface of his smooth and sophisticated manner. “You
know the public. They want like a false sense of security that some how everything makes sense.”
“Where’s your standard issue trench coat, Payne?” she hissed, but her voice sounded inviting. The tone
he’d liked since the first time he met her. “The Ray Bans and wingtips. You know the spy disguise?” She
got distracted between flirting with Payne and keeping track of the surveillance. So did Cross. He was
caught in a crossfire with interplay between these two. She sensed they were getting sidetracked. Not good
in police work. “My god, Payne. We’re busy here. We’re supposed to be on the same side.”
“We are, Blaze,” he proclaimed with fine tuned persuasion. A sly mischievous trace of deception floated
around the edges of reality. “Just different aspects of the same configuration. Come on, open up. We need
to talk.” He glanced at his watch, looked around and felt the press of time.
“Been made, huh? That’s a different topic between us, Payne,” she fired back. Silence ensued for a few
seconds. “You’re getting a break today. All right, I’m opening the side door.” The panel slid open.
“Good afternoon, Blaze.” Payne entered, shook her hand. Held the warmth for what seemed longer than
a simple greeting. Grey eyes penetrated brown eyes. Flashes of memory drifted over waves of past desire.
Plunging into her thoughts, she welcomed him. The gentle but firm touch of his hand to hers transformed
the moment. He broke away in deference to Cross. “Christian Cross, I’m Paladin Payne. A pleasure to meet
you.” They shook hands. The feel was firm, sturdy almost competitive. He sensed Cross had a jealous
streak. Protective of his partner. Fascinating, he mused. “Sorry to disturb your stakeout.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Cross replied, tension growing inside. How does he know me? “My god.
What’s the CIA doing on our turf, Payne? This is Immigration and Customs Enforcement business. Not spy
stuff. These guys are smuggling contraband. Customs violations.” He checked him over. Payne had a
smooth manner, muscular handsome, articulate, with eyes that speared right through you. Cross didn’t trust
spies. National security cloaked the world in a veil of plausible denial. Deception, illusion and sleight of
hand tricks were not his forte. He got an eerie feeling about this guy.
“In a technical sense,” Payne began, “I’m not a spy. We’re called case officers. We recruit spies.” He
sensed Cross’s uneasiness. Good thing to be on edge, Payne pondered. Stay close to your senses. Strange
things wash up now and then. But, you never let others see your anxiety. The tone of correction was almost
a challenge. He turned to Blaze. Yeah, he thought. She could be worth a duel. Not now, not here. Keep
focused. Cold objectivity centered on the mission. The game’s in play. No distractions. “And, we’re
involved in a lot of things these days. Directives from the White House and all that kind of stuff.”
“So, what are you doing here, Paladin?” her question contained the sense that she was glad to see him.
Yet, at the same time, her professional interest worried about jurisdictional concerns. Irritated, Cross stayed
fixed on his surveillance, half listening, half ignoring them. His uneasiness spilled out, poured over the
atmosphere of the van. More than jurisdictional boundaries were being crossed. All three picked up on the
intrusion. “You have a knack for showing up at the right time in the wrong places.” She scanned his face,
noting the good looking features were rugged and inviting once again. “Not to mention disappearing at the
wrong time in the right places.” She shook her hair back. Thoughts raced back to a distant place.
“Yeah, Paladin,” Cross cut in, carving out a presumption of protective interest. To him, this became
more than a turf battle. “ICE is on this one. It’s a matter of smuggling illegal materials into the U.S. and
other non-spy stuff.” His voice crisp and irritable.
“Thank you, Blaze. I think that was a compliment.” Payne smiled. His felt his lance bend on that sharp
thrust of hers. “My partner is going to join us in a few moments. She should be here soon. How about the
four of us have lunch.” The chiseled good looks spoke to her in deep penetrating ways.
“She?” Blaze bristled, a tinge of jealousy swam over her face. Paladin was amused. Cross was annoyed.
“Yes, another simulated cop, so to speak,” Paladin grinned. He glanced over to the surveillance screen.
“If you’re wondering. The black case contains the money.” He lied. “The brown one has the contraband
samples. But, the main thing is the information transfer.” He paused for effect. “We call the two of them.
Your suspect and his associate, Flotsam and Jetsam. Code names. Stuff that floats out to sea and things that
wash ashore. Fall out of airplanes or tossed over board from ships. Debris and so forth.” He craned his
neck, glanced around the van. “Organized crime. They’re smuggling for sure. Offshore drop offs, across
the Canadian border, and so on. Which, like the Mexican border, leaks like a sieve. You name it.”
“You spies are so clever,” Blaze batted her magnificent eyes at him. She felt a slight shiver, standing
there staring at him. “But, we already know that. The smuggling and so forth. So what?”
“Yes, you already know that,” Payne agreed with her. Steely eyes tracked her facial expression. “What
you don’t know is that the brown case contains something else. Top secret materials.”
“Oh, there’s something that ICE doesn’t know,” she jousted with pouted lips and crossed arms. Cross
ignored them and watched the monitor, scanning the neighborhood.
“It pains me to say this,” Payne offered with sarcasm. “Unfortunately, there are a few things ICE doesn’t
know.” And, that went beyond their need to know.
“Our six o’clock, to the rear,” Cross interrupted, focusing the remote camera. He pointed at another
police officer in full uniform. “Female officer approaching. Looks like the supervisor. A fake sergeant?”
“Oh, her,” Payne smiled a sheepish grin, “that’s my partner, Cherry Blossom.” He craned to check out
the screen. “We’re working this one together.” A cascade of jet black hair was tucked under her police hat.
With striking beauty and a sexy gait, the oriental female officer walked to the van.
“Cherry Blossom?” Blaze queried with a disbelieving snarl. “Code name or real name?” she glanced at
the monitor and stared at the shapely Asian woman. “She’s a beauty. Your partner, huh? Good with a gun?”
She hissed.
“Japanese heritage. Not her real name of course. And, she quite good with a gun,” Payne answered.
“I’ll bet,” Blaze shot back. She knew two spies in one place couldn’t be a good thing.
“Any way,” Payne continued. “Nukes.”
“Nuke what?” Cross asked, unable to take his eyes off the other officer.
“The brown case,” Payne added, “contains diagrams for a suitcase nuclear weapon. All courtesy of
some former KGB operatives. The original design was made possible by our new allies in Moscow.”
“Paladin,” the female officer announced. “Our targets are on the move.” Her perfect lips mesmerized
Cross. The dark eyes invaded the television screen. Stared with intensity at Cross.
“Well, let’s invite her in,” Cross said with near excitement in anticipation of her visit. He punched a
release and the door kicked open. She stepped in, with a hand from Payne. Cross held his breath.
“Hello, gentlemen, lady,” Cherry dashed a glance at Blaze. Everyone shook hands with introductions.
“So, Sgt. Blossom,” Blaze began, staring a look at Cherry’s sergeants stripes. Her uniform and
demeanor were all spit and polish. “What’s your read on this current situation? I need some answers.”
“Has he told you yet?” Cherry asked, avoiding the question. She scanned the faces of Cross and Bliss
and the got the answer she was looking for. “The currier.” She pointed at the screen. “He’s one of ours.”
“What?” Blaze quizzed in a demanding tone. “He works for the CIA? Are you kidding me?” her dark
eyes search Paladin’s face. “We suspect a problem with his reliability in view of the case he’s holding.”
“Well, Blaze,” Paladin started, “We didn’t quite get around to discussing the particulars. In short, you’re
surveillance involves one of our operatives. Flotsam is under cover. Jetsam is about to be receive
something from Flotsam.” Payne struck a look at Blossom. Bliss caught look. Cross was till checking the
monitor. Payne braced himself. Blossom gripped his forearm. Anticipation swept their faces.
“Too late,” Blossom whispered, glancing at her watch.
“No, just in time,” he said. Felt the initial tremor and then the subsequent vibration. “Get down!” He
yelled, grabbed Blossom and forced her to the floor. A thundering noise interrupted their meeting.
A horrendous blast erupted in the store across the street when a brief exploded. Concrete walls shattered
like thin stiff soup crackers. Support the beams buckled, an upper floor collapsed, and glass fragments shot
bullet-like into the air. Raining deadly aim haphazard directions. Caught in a flooding downpour, fixtures
received a hail of projectiles. The explosion rocked, showered and slammed everything within range. The
van bucked and strained backwards on its parking brake. Metal and rubber screeched in reaction to the
shock wave that followed. Tires squealed and the steel frame cried out fighting to crumble. Like a
cardboard box being kicked and tossed, the van bounced, smashed into another car. Occupants and
equipment twisted and tangled. Clouds of dust and debris came down with sudden pounding. Horns, alarms
and voices blared in the nearby vicinity. Chaos seemed to wash up in the wreckage of the spewing
discharge of exploding detonation.
“What the hell was that?” Blazed blistered a shocked query. Wide eyed, she forced herself up from the
floor. Pushed aside parts of equipment. “We’re gonna get some answers right now, right now, Payne.”
“Somebody just blew up your targets,” Payne whispered, helping Blossom to her feet. His steely gaze
found Cherry trying to untangle. They exchanged glances, collected their thoughts. Considered the situation
and held back any immediate comment.
“This place’ll be crawling with cops in a few minutes, Paladin,” she advised in a dry detached tone.
“Our apologies, Bliss,” Payne glanced at Cross, who was still buried in piles of gear. “We need a change
of clothes. Wouldn’t look good to get caught in these uniforms. Too many questions. So, we’ll make a
hasty departure, get a change and be in touch. Meanwhile, I’d say you’re in charge.”
“Thanks,” Blaze blasted half hearted appreciation. Dark eyes flamed and flashed in his direction. Her
mind went into quick assessment of the situation. “Come on Cross.” She knelt, helped him up. “Let’s go be
feds. Cover for our friends here. Get out there and help the locals restore order.” She winked at Payne, still
uncertain about what just happened. “Of course these two were never here.”
“Whatever resources you need, simply ask,” Payne gave her a serious look. “We’ll be in the shadows.
You name it. We’ll get it for you. Keep in mind. There’s something much deeper than what appears in your
surveillance.” He smirked, patted her shoulder and disappeared with Cherry Blossom.
“God they’re spooky,” Cross breathed a sigh, feeling double crossed. “Spies. Everything’s fine. Then
they show up.” He raked his hand over his forehead. “All right. Let’s get out there. ICE is on the case.”
Local police crime scene techs crawled over the scene. Stores weren’t too badly damaged. Amazingly,
there were no civilian casualties other than to two suspects and several associates. Flotsam and Jetsam,
along with their colleagues had become history. By the evening, the bodies had been removed. All were of
Arabic nationality. In the meantime, the city block remained cordoned off as a restricted area. People had
been cleared back from the immediate area, along with TV cameras. Debris and rumble scattered over
hundreds of feet, blocking the street. Fear, uncertainty and chaos became the immediate preoccupation for
most civilians. The news media helped compound the confusion. Police and federal agents continued to
search for clues. During the next day, Agent Bliss found herself still looking for clues. Answers were
illusive. The bomb components seemed mysterious in nature.
“The blast was well-contained,” the voice said behind her back. “Having fun sifting through rubble?”
“I’d recognize that smooth deceptive approach anywhere,” Blaze replied. Her voice dripping the usual
sarcasm when ever he showed up. She wore navy blue coveralls, white gloves and safety glasses. Hair
pulled back in a tight bun. On the back of the coveralls, the words Special Agent stood out in yellow colors.
She turned and met his facial expression. “Beige trench coat. Nice. Standard CIA issue?”
“Yes, along with wingtips, blue suits and preppie ties.” Paladin Payne smirked. But, Cherry Blossom,
standing next to him, didn’t. She gave a catty expression to Blaze. Looked a like a sleek panther about to
attack. “And, don’t forget the dark sunglasses.” He looked around. “Where’s Agent Cross?’
“Busy with reports at the lab.” She stood up, looked them over. “What’re you two doing in my crime
scene?” She hissed a breath, but not too serious. Shot a similar look at Blossom. They exchanged tenuous
nods. Blaze noted they both dressed almost alike. Trench coat, blue suits and tan fedora. The two of them
looked like something out of an old Hollywood murder mystery.
“Oh, we thought we’d stop by, see how things are going,” Payne said. His tone contained a casual air.
“See if you needed help with anything.”
“No you didn’t,” she tossed at him. Her hint washed a skeptical pitch toward Blossom. “You two are
checking on your handy work. This has agency termination written all over it.”
“Hmm, interesting assessment, Agent Bliss,” he said in a more formal mood. A side glance shot to
Blossom. She sneered a modest smile.
“Surely you jest, Agent Bliss,” Blossom challenged. Her impatience needling the border of her
temperament.
“Nope. No jesting here, sister,” Blaze answered. “That’s why you two interrupted us yesterday. Get a
closer look at your handy work. Use us as your surveillance point. You destroyed a lot of time consuming
surveillance. Not to mention smuggled merchandise. Aside from killing everyone in the store.” She grew
more agitated, less gracious. “What was it all about, Paladin? Turf war? Protect Agency dirty laundry?
More deceptions so you guys can deny things?”
“I apologize for the not interceding earlier,” he offered. “Wish I’d had more time to give both you and
Cross and thorough briefing.” He adjusted the brim of his at. Took it off, held it in one hand. “I’m sorry
about your investigation. Our case developed very quickly. In short, our operative went rogue. Double
crossed us. They were gonna build a suitcase nuke. You had their terrorist cell under surveillance. We had
to act fast.” He contained his growing impatience. “National security superseded your investigation.”
“How typical. So you double crossed your operative.” She spewed in quick response to his explanation.
“Yes, we did,” he replied flatly. “This was a precise bombing. Surgical. Sure and swift interdiction.
Everyone killed was a member of the terrorist cell. No citizens got hurt in the process. The terrorist will be
blamed by the media for their own self-destruction. In a few days, people will forget and move on like they
always do. The merchandise is not as important as what they were about to do.”
“National security seems to over ride all kinds of things, doesn’t it, Paladin?” Blaze hissed words,
swinging an angry hint. “Wow, that’s so easy for you and her, isn’t it?”
“What more do you want, Blaze?” he sought to explain as if he cared how she felt. “Nice, neat, Easy to
swallow answers to the complex nature of human behavior? A simple gold embossed book of truth? There
are no such things. Human nature is a paradox.” His eyes pleaded for her understanding of the situation.
“You’re cop. Of all people, you should understand how things work. Sometimes, you don’t play by the
rules. There are times we make up the rules. When it comes to protecting this county from all enemies.
Foreign and domestic. The ends justify the means.”
“How do you two sleep at night?” Blaze asked, proclaiming a sense of due process and fair play.
“Very well,” he said, a deliberate calm reflected in his expression. “Some people can’t handle what we
do. Most people don’t want to know. Many simply would not understand. This is a dangerous game. You
play to win. You don’t play to tie the score or call it a draw. Winners get to play again tomorrow. Losers
get body bags.” He paused for a second. Glanced around to ensure no one else was listening. “You want
things to be black and white. Right and wrong. Clear cut good versus evil. Simple and uncomplicated. It
doesn’t work that way, Blaze. The world is full of predators. Most are our enemies, regardless of what gets
reported in the news. A mask of sanity covers the face of humanity. There are no guarantees.”
“I can agree to a point, Paladin,” she told him, hanging her head slightly as if sad. “Yet, the line has to
be drawn somewhere. I want justice. But, I want the system to work too. No short cuts. An arrest, a
prosecution and a trial. If convicted, put them in a cage for the rest of their lives.” She swallowed, cleared
her throat. Held back a surge of emotion. “You know, the Constitution for god’s sakes, Paladin?”
“Sometimes, Blaze,” he assured with a slight smile, “things work that way. Then again, sometimes they
don’t. Good and evil are the twin realities of what people do to each other. They’re the looking glass of
human motives and intentions. One always stares back at the other, wondering which one is which on a
given day. A duality of purpose and perspective. In our world, protecting this country means trusting
nothing and no one to the chance of possibilities.”
“My god, that’s cynical, Paladin.” She shrugged her shoulders. Felt disappointed.
“Yeah, it is, very much so,” he replied. “But, that’s the way things are. Whether it’s an assassination of
dangerous despot. The overthrow of a terrorist state. Or, the elimination of treacherous corporate conflict.
We’re in the shadows, ready, willing and able. America will prevail over her adversaries. We are the last
superpower. And, you know what? The American people, whether they admit it or not, want it that way. No
gas lines, no supply shortages, no riots or stock market instability. The people like what they have. On top
of that, they don’t want to know what we do or how we do it.” Cherry moved closer to Payne. Encircled her
arm with his. Declared affection and support for her partner.
“Good bye, Paladin,” she snarled. She’d had enough. Cast a stony look at Blossom. “Wish you best.” A
wet glaze washed over her eyes. “Have a good life. See you around.” She knelt down. Adjusted her
goggles. Went back to her work.
“You too, Blaze,” he said to her with a tiny bit of regret. “Best wishes always. Stay safe. You’re damn
good cop.” As he and Blossom faded into the shadows, he blew her kiss. Then he added, “People don’t
want flotsam and jetsam washing up on their shoreline.”
Knight in Shining Armor by Randy Gonzalez

Paladin Payne new about pain. Of course, that’s not his real name. None the less, he’d experienced the
bone crushing, tissue ripping sting and gush of agony. On one level, he was in love with his partner. And, if
that wasn’t painful enough, she, in turn, loved him. They’d worked together all over the world. Making the
global community safe for American interests. But, theirs held an unusual cup of pleasured inclinations.
They were spies. Well, actually case officers for the CIA. The difference contained the distinction that they
recruited spies for the U.S. intelligence community. For them, love claimed bits and pieces of soulful
torture, captured in moments of urgent desire. They’d made enemies. Success calculated gain in terms of
deception, destruction and death. He held her hand, as they watched from a darkened alley. And, then, the
gutting wrenching tremor of a horrific explosion. The upper floor of the aging apartment complex shook as
though struck by an earthquake. Violent splintering vibrations, shock waves and rupturing structures pour
debris down on the street. Car alarms blared as glass shattered. Voices shrieked and screamed in the night
air. Smoke sensors woke up, sent signals to sleepy rescuers. Activities were set into motion.
“You okay?” His smooth eloquent voice soothed next to her ear. The two of them recovered, standing
up straight. Both dashing and sophisticated in appearance. Dusting off their black trench coats, they
surveyed the wreckage. A slight drizzle of rain tapped beading trails of moisture on the expensive material.
He whipped up a night vision device. Scanned the periphery of destruction. “The new gelatin is very
effective. Need to get an e-memo off to the techno section. Better than C-4.” He craned a look at her, steel
grey eyes impatient for her response.
“Yes, I fine,” she answered, cooing in the delight of another successful termination. Those pouted puffy
lips could melt his mettle without warning. Her green eyes scanned his form. She winked in their shadowy
enclave. “My god, Paladin, they fell for it.” Smoldering pieces of fracture chunks littered the junk strewn
front yard. “All too easy. What gives?” She mused at their specter-like presence in the pre-dawn murkiness.
Long golden fingers with silver tinted nails reached for him. “Let me see, please.” She gestured for the
viewer. Placing it to one beautiful perfect eye, she inspected their expertise. “My goodness. Surgical,
precise, contained. Just the one apartment. Nice to have the others vacant at this time.” she handed him the
viewer. “So, what gives, Mr. P?” Her head whipped to one side. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Well, Ms. T, good question.” His voice bore no satisfaction. Another mission accomplished in record
breaking time. Naturally, the public wouldn’t have a clue. Neither would politicians or the press. “Sure,
swift and certain. Justice comes in the night. Rides a pale horse.” His slick, cool poetic resonance always
got to her. At that, they disappeared into the darkness. Hands on pistols just in case. Shoulder holsters
strapped snugly in place. “Our operative planted the device as instructed. Nothing ever goes according to
plan without some glitch.” He mused, reviewed the case file in the deep recesses of his mind. “An
unfortunate loss. He was good.” A sour sadness milked his handsome face. “We’ll never know why. Only
guess at the reasons. Yet, we’ll do what’s necessary or die trying.”
“I know, honey,” she agreed without prolonged discussion. “He gave himself as a sacrifice for the cause.
You’re right. And, they walked right into that one. Another terrorist cell deactivated. Of course, the City
can now move toward upgrading the neighborhood. Could use some sprucing up.”
“Mmm, good point,” he said, pulling a remote control device from his pocket. Hand in hand they
approached an emerald green Jaguar. Shiny and new, the color matched her eyes. With one hand, he tugged
his grey fedora on the brim. She did the same. The driver relaxed. With the remote, he keyed a special code
into the console of the car. A discreet signal flashed to secret satellites. At the same time, the driver stepped
out holding a small well-made machinegun. “Back to the apartment,” He said with a courteous nod to their
assistant. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?” Once inside the bulletproof car, they vanished into the night.
After a late evening of blissful union, they pulled themselves apart. Held each other in tender closeness.
Touching in ways only they could reassure each other. Having slept entangled in their mutual embrace, the
alarm clock’s annoyance taunted their senses. With trained precision and cautious movements, they rolled
out of bed. Tossing covers to one side, a lingering kiss invited an early morning shower. Toned muscles
defined handsome physiques, accentuated with daring good looks. Naked as he, she preceded him to the
bathroom. Gliding on a gait of glamorous silky steps, she cast a bearing of clever confidence. In similar
fashion, his smooth deliberate manner projected the cool efficiency of suave deadly charm. The sudden
blast of the shower’s hot spray summoned him to her steamy invitation.
“You look beautiful this morning, my dearest,” he said, standing there in a white robe, troubling a towel
through his sandy wet hair. Having been last to finish his personal necessities, he found her in the kitchen.
“Ah, that wet, warm flushed look. A teasing temptation of earthy delights.” His mind raced to the previous
evening where he couldn’t get enough of her. Filling his thoughts with her presence, he scanned the
kitchen, noted whether things seemed in place or out of place. To both him and her, everyday saw the
necessity of skilled observation, vigilance and meticulous preparation. One had to be awake even when
asleep. Professional survival depended on such things.
“You’re so easy, my love,” she cooed a tone of delight. “I have you in my spell. Just as it should be. My
knight in shining armor.” Her teasing brought him comfort. In her matching robe and fury slippers, she
prepared a healthy breakfast. A huge white towel wrapped around her head, hiding the short black curls.
“How about homemade oatmeal, whole grain toast with real strawberry preserves? Black coffee and fresh
assorted fruit?” One long slender finger touched her lips. Slowly licking droplets of jam, she turned to him.
Sucked on her finger and gave him a simmering stare. She batted her eye lashes, linger for a response.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he smiled exhaling a hiss of breath. “You got me.” She nodded in that
dark devious way he liked so much. “Sounds good to me. What can I help with?” Gathering up plates,
utensils and cups, they adjourned to the breakfast nook.
“Interesting story on page one,” she offered, opening the newspaper. “Seems like a gas leak in an old
apartment building killed several people.” Her voice echoed the contained melody of their special world of
secrets. “The reporter says they were of foreign nationality. But, he goes on to say something about the
police being very hush hush about the incident.”
“Really?” He replied in mock disbelief. “What a shame. The city should step up inspections for that sort
of thing.” Reaching for the financial section, he borrowed some of her paper. Jade green flashes glanced at
him over the top of the newspaper. “Just perusing the stock market reports.”
“Trying to steal my morning paper huh,” she teased, her tongue darting in and out. The smile melted the
jelly on his toast. Crimson droplets seeped over the edges, dripped on the whiteness of the plate. “Any
word from our Uncle?” her question haunted at the necessity of getting back to business. She was quick to
divert, detour and drive his mind around her flirtations antics.
“Not yet,” he groaned a sigh. Heaved out a breath and gave a grin. “Suspect we need to check in. Find
out the latest repercussions concerning exploding gas lines.” Drawing in a breath, he sniffed the morning
smells. Fresh flowers, strong coffee, simmering oatmeal and her natural aroma. The mingling of their
fleshy presence blessed the union of their partnership.
“All play and no work,” she taunted, “makes for too many distractions. We can’t possibility get away
too long. The agency will notice.” Long slender fingers plucked a plump strawberry from her plate. Small
circular motions rubbed the pointed end in warm maple syrup. She reached across and placed the delicate
morsel between his lips. “They’re good at keeping tabs on us, you know.”
“Hmm, that’s good. Thank you my dear,” he said, chewing the savory chunk of fruit. He swallowed,
watching her elegant shifting in her chair. At the same time, his wrist watch vibrated. The golden Breitling
Navitimer, with black leather straps, contained miniature electronics. Aside from being both expensive and
well-made, the chronometer served as a communication link. The frequencies were above top secret. “And,
you were saying?” He tossed her a wink and glanced at the multi-functional device. “Looks like our Uncle
is looking for us.” He pressed a small button. A tiny screen appeared. Cryptic words streamed a message.
“Fun’s over, back to the office, my dear,” her voice had a resonance of liquid sugar and cream. “Ah, the
work of spies is never done.” Her hand held up a white coffee cup. “Here’s to God, country and creed.”
“Here, here, I’ll second that.” He did likewise. “Seems like the recall is urgent.” His hand slid across the
table taking hers. Squeezing gently, he added, “I suspect we’ll be headed to the Middle East.” His grey eyes
turned cold steel. Flashes of silver urns protecting body ashes fired his thoughts. “Don’t get lost in the
market places.” Their thoughts followed each other around the room. Held emotional strains in the balance
between light and darkness. Sinking into the depths of her soul, he touched her center.
“Don’t go there,” she said, swallowing back a sudden feeling. Her voice low and hoarse. “I know what
you’re trying to say.” Code words for being careful, watching you’re back and not taking too many
chances. “I’m as good as you, pal.” A faint mist washed over her green eyes. Narrowed slits argued with
him. “We both understand the risks. Been in tight places before. So, don’t go mushy on me right now,
baby.” She squeezed his hand harder. “You’re my knight in shining armor. And, I’m your damsel whose
gonna cover you ass in more ways than one, my love.”
“You’ve been trained well, darling,” he told her. “Just had to say it.”
“I had a good instructor.” she blew him a kiss. “You taught me well.
Paladin Payne and Myla Trench could trace their mutual infatuation back to college days. From which,
they were both recruited. Not their real names, of course. Recruitment had been a small effort. The two
grew up in a family of spies. Both parents had worked in the O.S.S. against the Nazis. To them, following
in such noble footsteps, was simply a matter of tradition. Something that had to be done.
“There’s nothing more necessary than quality intelligence,” Payne started, as they exited the dark green
jaguar. Their driver peeled away from the curb. He took her hand. “It frustrates our enemies and derails
their intentions. Yet, such things require great painstaking effort.” His voice held that quality she knew all
too well. The voice of a skilled competent instructor.
“Your admiring student heartily agrees,” she murmured, joining him at the curb. They both rotated with
deliberate calculation. Glancing up and down the street. All around them, they skimmed the terrain of
buildings and sightlines. Movements expressed the kind of subtle caution and care of professionals.
“What’s up, you think? We’re summoned to the office early.” She looked him up and down. Enjoyed what
she saw. The grey fedora cocked to one side mentioned his confident nature. Droplets of rain slid down the
surface of the navy blue trench coat.
“I suspect our recent report got someone’s attention,” he answered. Likewise, he beheld her high fashion
good looks. Her hat and top coat nearly replicated his attire. The Armani wardrobe said both were
successful business types. Their cologne and perfume spoke of elegance, taste and refined attitude.
They entered the huge office building together. Crossed the marbled lobby, nodded to the guard on duty,
and headed for the bank of elevators. Cameras scanned their progress and reported to personnel hidden on
upper floors. Quiet manipulations by covert electronic means ensured a sense of security. On an upper
level, an import-export business concealed complex of inner workings. Secrets circled around deliberate
actions of men and women dedicated to national security. When the elevator opened on the thirteenth floor,
Payne and Trench stepped out. Micro scanners searched them. Another guard greeted them. She smiled in a
friendly professional manner. Her eyes darted across her console. One finger hesitated over a red button. A
green light flashed. She signaled them to pass through.
“Good morning,” Payne said, politely tipping his gray fedora.
“Thank you,” Myla added.
Just past the reception desk, they waited a brief moment at a doorway. Together, they paused on the
dark thick crimson carpet, surrounded by expensive art work. Plush furnishings and exotic potted plants
filled the area with a flare of luxurious splendor. While they waited, she looked into his eyes. Jade flashes
of affection met his grey steel look of appreciation. Without words, they thought about last night, then
morning’s breakfast together. Her hand eased toward his. They touched.
“Ah yes, the wait,” he hissed out a breath. Gently squeezed her hand. Looks can be deceiving, the
thought. Like his, her hands were skilled in deadly arts.
“Yes, making sure, we’re who we are,” she breathed. Clutched for her golden cigarette case.
Remembered they were in a no smoking zone.
The huge solid oak door stood still, locked and supported by an array of countermeasures. One press of
a red button could summon sinister looking people dressed in black. They’d carry machineguns with
silencers. Shooting first, asking questions later would be their first option. At the same time, alarms sent out
a bugle call to local reinforcements. Intrusion, threats and dangers were constantly anticipated and planned
for. That’s why Payne and Trench had been monitored before they entered the building.
“Time’s up,” he hinted with a huff. One hand slipped inside the expensive coat. Fingers tapped the butt
of his pistol. Senses at full alert. “Security has been elevated to a higher level. Thank God.” The heavy door
slid to one side. “After you, my dear.” Lights appeared brighter on the other side. “Back to work.” He
gestured with a wave. Motioned her through the portal to another aspect of a multidimensional world.
“Ah yes,” she sighed pleasantly. “The smoke and mirrors of our realm of reality.” She smoothed a hand
down her tailored skirt. Gave a slight tug on the holster between her thighs. Everything was in its place, she
thought. Even the crimson colored garter belt she liked so much. Knew it drove crazy with passion, just
knowing the lacy material was there.
With a whir of electronic motion, the heavy door slid open. A crack in the crevice to the interior of a
cosmopolitan cavern that didn’t exist. Intelligence was the fine art of illusion, coupled by the sleight of
hand tactics to ensure national security. Promoting the general welfare and ensuring the common defense
meant doing dangerous and deadly things.
“People sleep safely at night,” he said to her in a passing a comment. “Because a few brave men and
women will do violent things on their behalf.” They eased with confidence through the opening. Headed
down the tunnel of an ornately antique furnished hallway.
“We’re the they and the them of their vague dreams, gullibility and naïve thoughts,” she answered in a
tone of cynicism that matched his. “We’re urban legends.” Similar heavy doors to the right and left hid
recesses of research, planning and special operations. Machiavellian labors pressed stresses and strains of
reality all around them. But, just in front, an open expanse of stylish décor greeted them. Reflecting art and
taste of cultivated polish and dignity, the environs whispered first class efficiency.
“He’s expecting you, Colonel,” the pert blonde young administrative assistant said. Briefly looking up,
her brown eyes admired what she saw. Visually conducting a personal inventory, she took in his presence.
Sighing a long breath, she frowned a bit. The stare of green eyes from Myla Trench caught her attention.
“Thank you dear,” Myla responded, smiling a curve of ruby her lips. A smug jut of the chin.
“Ah yes, the doorway to the looking glasses on the other side of reality,” he noted, changing the focus of
the spellbound moment. They paused at the senior case officer’s office door. Solid, sturdy, hand carved oak
stood between them and the next briefing. “Shall we see what’s in store, just behind the next door?” A hint
of tease searched her senses as he pressed open the door.
“How poetic, darling,” she jested, casting a glint of jealousy in the air. The mist filtered lightly.
Dangerously beautiful, he thought, holding the door for her. Side by side they sat. The overstuffed
leather couch felt cozy and soft against their experience hardened bodies. The supervisor had his back to
them, as their collective presence filled the room. Graying around the temples tinted the brown swept back
hair. Seemingly tired, the senior officer focused on a flat screen. His face held a grimace on an otherwise
attractive profile. The closed circuit transmission, affixed to the wall, beamed a news report into the room.
“Morning, Number One,” Payne crossed the room. A wave of a hand signaled them to sit. “I take it
you’ve perused last nights digital report?” There was a subtle nod from behind a huge wooden desk.
“However, I see you’re somewhat occupied.” No immediate response came back.
“The Brits recovered a nuke,” he said in a deep almost gravelly voice. “Homemade from Russian
materials and Chinese components. In the hands of Islamo-fascists. Terrorist cell deactivated in London.”
The words repeated the headlines. “God help us if these criminals set one off on U.S. soil, Paladin. You and
Trench got some work to do.” He swiveled around. The big black chair creaked under his large frame.
Sharp brown eyes, accentuated by well-earned wrinkles, leveled in their direction. “Let’s get our briefing
on track.” Crisp starched white shirt, accented by gold cufflinks, suggested an upscale, refined and
sophisticated appearance. But, keen, shrewd and dedicated intentions rested below the surface.
“The usual trinity of evil,” Myla quipped, crossing her long elegant legs. Adjusting her skirt, sinking
into the comfort of the overstuffed brown leather chair. The all nodded at her comment.
“It goes without saying, chief,” Payne answered. Inside, he toyed with the notion of how the end
justified the means. National security was more important than fair play, rules of the game or the necessity
of fame. An affectionate glimpse skimmed over her. “We’re on task. Got the connection to the Middle East.
Our asset’s in place. And, that said, we’ll be on our way. Time is of the essence.” His suave manner hid the
ice cold precision of a professional.
“Good, you two are the action officers. So, get busy, crack this case. Make the world safe,” their Uncle
said, grinning from ear to ear. “Then, in that case, let’s conclude our briefing.” He paused, swiveled and
grabbed a pipe. The no smoking rule didn’t apply in his office. As far as he was concerned, he was the
rules. And, since none of this existed, who’d know. “Alright, I call your attention to Screen Two, middle of
the wall.” Billowing a cloud of cherry flavored smoke, he continued, “You’ll get other details at the other
end of your trip. For the time being, here’s the sitrep.” He puffed a lingering blue-grey stream. Let out a
long breath. “Okay, get going. The play is in motion. Get to the contact.”
“Aye, Aye, chief,” Myla responded happily, tossed her partner a curving grin. Passing through the outer
office, the efficient administrative assistant tossed Myla a golden envelope.
“Details, your eyes only,” the blonde said, looking with a longing glance at Paladin. Her voice quivered
slightly. Ruby lips puckered with a pout, as to two sailed by. “Have a wonderful trip, stay safe.” She paused
for a second and added, “I do mean both of you of course.”
“Thank you. You too,” Myla replied in a subtle catty tone. “Don’t over work yourself.” Her gait held
close to the edge of a slinky untamed swagger. Self-satisfied with her territorial claim, she cast him a
boastful glance. Draped an arm in a casual manner across his shoulders.
“Myla,” he sighed, stretching her name for emphasis. “Down woman, retract claws. Don’t hurt her.”
“Yes, dear,” she whispered. “You behave yourself, pal. That woman’s got intentions.”
“Yes, my love,” he conceded. “I’m always on my best behavior. Like a knight in shining armor.”
“Yeah, right,” she smirked and rolled her eyes. “You’re a man. It’s that simple. Not real complicated.”
The flight was over in the span of a few hours. They held hands, sipped pink champagne and made
plans. A somewhat circuitous route, from New York, over Spain, landed them in Casablanca, on the
Atlantic Coast of Morocco. Impressive, the prestigious Le Royale Hotel greeted them. An oasis of splendid
luxury cascaded around them in a whirlpool of lavish opulence, lush greenery and blue water.
“Ah, my kind of place,” she cooed, whipped out her pistol from her black lacy garter belt. “Plump with
luxurious appointments.” Dropped the hem of her skirt. Let her emerald sparkles of vision scan the room.
Lynx-eyed glances shot back and forth. Cat-like, she poised herself, combative, ready to pounce on the first
threat. Killing an adversary had to be done with cruel, cold and calculated efficiency, she thought. You
didn’t take it lightly. You just did your job and lived with the aftermath. “I’ve got the point,” she
murmured, barely within audible range. “Cover my backside.” The smile met the steel grey of his eyes.
“Uh huh, very nice,” he said softly. Eyeing the length of long leg and silky hosiery. Thank God for
Victoria’s Secrets, he thought. “I’m right behind, my dear. Up close and personal.” Easing the door shut.
Engaging the deadbolt. Setting the alarm. Visual array split between the room and her. Fetched his pistol
from inside his coat. Pulled it free from the tailored brown leather shoulder holster. Follow the leader. Her
move, then my move, caution, care and coordination.
Deadly efficiency edged the corners, angles and crevices. Two warriors, mercenaries of a different kind,
watching each other. Cover, concealment and camouflaged stepping without a trace here and there. Trained
in ancient martial tactics, tools and techniques, they applied their skills in a modern theater of human
warfare. Pistols held close, ready, steady and sturdy. She preferred the compact Soviet Makarov in .380
caliber. Reliable, hard-wearing and well-built. He liked the more powerful Israeli Desert Eagle. Solid,
powerful and brawny. While he knew size didn’t matter, he wanted to ensure sufficient penetration. The
barrels of their silenced weapons, skimmed the periphery. They scanned the premises, checked the access
points, and secured the suite.
“Clear, my love.” she tasted her lower lip, smirked at his expression. One hand on a hip, slanted to one
side. The other holding the gun, barrel pointed upward. “Easy tough, guy. We don’t have time for that.
Maybe later, though,” her tone softened. She read the expression on his face, felt the beat of his pulse in her
mind. The throb of their affection for each other. “Let’s get refreshed and meet our host.”
“I’m certainly glad we’re a team.” His voice fell low, to a whisper. “Yes, we must make haste.” He
knew she was right. “Unfortunately, no time to waste.” His arms encircled her hips, pulled her to him.
Nuzzled an ear, let his lips caress her neck.
“Hmm, I could be persuaded…” She squirmed at his touch, felt chills of mounting thrill. But wrapped
her arms around his neck. “No, you, rascal. We’ve got an appointment.” Pushing away, she tossed a long
sugar coated glance over one should. Swayed in that certain way. Headed to the bathroom and disappeared.
In the next, hour, or less. They’d be changed and dressed in more elegant attire.
“Paladin Payne,” he offered, extending a hand to the man at the table. “The name is always the same.
Just like the nature of the game.” A sleek smooth gesture of one hand. A slight step back. He presented the
contessa. “May I present, the Contessa De La Trench.”
“God, I hate the spy business,” the man groaned. “But, I truly love royalty.” He stood, waved back the
slickness of his black hair. Gathered his rotund presence and bowed. The beak of a nose pointed to the
floor. His meaty hand held hers, gentle and soft. Kissed the back of her hand. Then waved them to the red
ornate curvy chairs around the table. “So pleased to meet you, you highness.”
“Thank you,” she said, noting something the man’s eyes. The windows to the soul. Something held
back. No one could ever be trusted. Releasing the sweaty hand, she stood graceful and elegant in her long
green evening gown.
“You hate the business, but you love the money, Crimson,” Payne noted with a wry glint. She thought
he looked dashing in his tux. The stare of death reconned the room. “Motives lurk in the span of fantasy
between love or money. And, Crimson, you know my uncle pays very well.” She did likewise, watched his
back. Caught subtle movements of people. And, he covered her as well. The hotel’s expansive dinning
room sang with colorful animation, teaming with life. Various forms, sizes, shapes, motives. Tourist, locals
and serious types littered the layered grandiose landscape. “Drinks?” that resonance of his cool, detached
professionalism, gave her a momentary smile. “We’d like martinis of course.” She nodded. Rubbed her
thigh, made sure her gun was nearby. He waved a waiter over to the table.
“Yes, please. I need a drink. Very dangerous here, Payne. You too, Contessa.” Crimson’s voice ran
quickly to the edge of fear and worrisome anxiety. Hands trembled. Coal black eyes darted side to side,
evoking a cracking open of nervous anticipation. “Gin and tonic for me.”
“Excellent, good choice,” Payne agreed, visually still checking him out. It’d been while since they were
face to face. Payne gave the orders to the waiter. “By the way. Your bone fides are still in good standing.
The intercept was good. We neutralized the cell in the New York. They’d planned a triangular attack. Wall
Street, the Statue of Liberty and JFK airport. Would’ve been a catastrophe very much like nine eleven.”
Martini in hand, he sniffed, tasted and swallowed. Watched faces around the room. “Your gift has been
transferred to the usual deposit in Geneva.”
“We don’t have much time, Payne,” Crimson coughed, gulped his gin and tonic. Ordered another.
Another came without delay. “I’m being followed. They look Russian.” He sweated profusely. Soaked his
dressy white shirt. Glancing around, he reached inside his white dinner jacket. “Here’s it is. The details. All
you need to get this over with.” While one hand slid Payne a small gold cigarette case, the other reached for
his glass. “I need absolution. Atonement for the things I’ve done.” Payne tilted his head in agreement and
accepted the case. “I want U.S. citizenship this time. And, protection. New identity.”
“Why, Crimson, you know smoking is bad for your health.” Payne eyed a brief blur of restrained
movement. She tracked his eyes, caught it too. Guns clutched, they covered each other.
The words lingered in the air for second. In an instant, there came a muffled flash, burst of snapping air.
A sonic concussion of speed and velocity. The glass shattered. Ice scattered. Silvery clear liquid splattered.
Crimson jerked back, stiffened in a cadaveric spasm. Chest bubbling red spurts. Scarlet ripples across a
white starched table cloth. Direct hit. Heart shredded in a meat grinder of leaded eruption. Incessant beating
against the chest, receding toward a final rest. Depths of darkens opening the shadowy realms. At the same
time, as pandemonium spread like a plague, Payne and Trench were gone. Disappeared as phantoms in the
night. Wills of iron focused on the assassination.
“She went this way,” Myla intoned to him, pointing with her gun down a hallway. “A woman dressed
in scarlet. Head to toe. Red stiletto heels.” Down the corridor she tracked the femme fatale.
“Let’s take her alive, if possible,” he called after her. Sirens blared in the distance. Hotel guests, staff
and visitors panicked in a multitude of loud shrieks. As people often due in a crisis. Naturally, you use it to
your advantage he gauged. “Need to evacuate soon.” Payne considered the odds.
“She’s going up,” Myla told him, hinting an odd glint to her voice. “Why up, darling?” The chase found
the stairwell. They climbed cautiously in pursuit. “It’s several stories to the ground.”
“Bread crumbs.” He pointed to a spiked shoe on cold concrete floor of the next landing. “Good question,
my love. Up is no escape. Down and out is. You have to go down in order to rise up. She has an accomplice
and this is a trap.” Their pistols steadied like sentries, searching for targets. Waiting for the assault. “Shall
we accommodate them, my love?”
“Of course, my dear,” she grinned, exuding excitement of the pace. Both catching their breathes for a
split second or two. On the next level, she found another shoe. And, still, on the next, shards of red dress.
Followed by stockings and lacy streamers of fancy fabric. “My goodness. By the time we catch her, she’ll
be naked.” Myla rolled her eyes, flexed an eyebrow.
“What a shame that’d be,” he cleared his throat, gave a slanted gleam. More steps, rails and landings,
until, at last the roof access. He spied a thin bridge to the top. The heavy metal door stood mute. Light from
the roof crept through the slim opening. “How interesting. Knights in shining armor. A damsel in distress.
Hmm, a triunity in our duality.” His senses picked up the assassins presence.
“She left the door open,” Myla heaved a breath. “You first,” she added with a snicker.
“No, you first,” he joked back with her.
“No, you,” she chuckled, loving these times they had together.
“Together, my dear,” he said. “We hook and scoop, pan and tilt. My count.”
“On three,” she whispered.
Angling their attack, they moved through the open doorway. Engaging a bombardment of hostile
reception. Hidden threats fought their arrival. Silencers heated intensely in the breach of the chasm between
them and their objective. Pistols flinched in muffled expressions. Spent casings arched from bursting
chambers. Metallic tinkling sounds followed each empty cartridge hitting the rooftop. Smells of gunpowder
wafted through nostrils. Recoil upon recoil, ejected to the next bullet in rapid succession. Heads popping
open like fresh honey dew melons. Ruby ribbons of splashing streams, spraying the roof top in spreading
patterns. Thuds of slumping bodies fell at their feet. As Myla rolled, rotated and recovered. Paladin dashed,
dodged and ducked. From simultaneous points of cover, containment and concealment they checked each
other. Smooth, precise and lethal efficiency held to the effectiveness of their unity.
“Clear, my love,” she shouted with a blurt of controlled stress. “You okay?”
“Roger that, my darling,” he blew a stream of relief. “All down except one.” At the same time, they
gave close scrutiny of the female assassin. He surveyed the heap of six dead male bodies.
Muted on the edge of the roof precipice, she teetered in her glistening nakedness. Toes holding the
slipping edge of the roofs poignant reality. Strands of black hair whipped by the breeze, drifted over rich
brown skin, as dark eyes stared blankly. No emotion evoked from the death grip of fatal features.
“She’s not gonna yield,” Myla advised, reloading her pistol and focusing on the murderer. “I can see the
defiance in her eyes. Nice corset, sweetheart.” Myla growled at her. Noting the olive colored explosive vest
she wore. One thumb lightly touching a red button. Wiring drifting down around the waist, connecting to
thick powdery yellowish blocks. “Enough plastique to blow the roof off this place. Us with it.”
Her snarl had him focused on the detonator. And, the next second of eternity of decide. Myla sought
some kindred connection with the killer. Still, nothing from the woman. A raven haired beauty, tanned by
natural processes, she only looked back with a manikin’s lifeless gaze. Puff, the multiple snaps of silenced
thumps hammered the woman’s head, throat and chest. Her body whipped backward and over the edge.
Falling the seven stories to the concrete below. Her thumb jerked and blew a volcanic fireball up and down
the sides of the hotel. Windows blew apart in a rain of glass and mortar. The whirlwind of the explosive
torrent collapsed signage, caved overhanging awnings and smashed cars. Alarms went off.
“Get down,” Paladin yelled at Myla. Having fired his pistol he dove through the air. Fearlessly flung
himself over her. Took shrapnel in the back, ripped into the coat of his tuxedo. Smoke, thick and black,
covered the reaches of the senses. He held her down, splayed on top, and covered her, as the blast shook
viciously the roof. Debris pilled up around them. The disturbance subsided.
“Thanks, my love,” she let out a breath, put her arms around his neck. Pressed her lips to his. Held that
way for what seemed like infinity. Inhaling, exhaling, chest rising and falling, she told him, “My aren’t we
quick to shoot off.” Grinning, her teasing revived him ever more than the kiss. “I mean your pistol of
course.” She tugged his lower lip with her teeth. “I thought we wanted to interrogate her?”
“Interrogate a woman strapped in a wardrobe of explosives?” He asked, the smirk stretching across his
scared face. Tiny droplets of blood oozed down his forehead. “No thanks. I already have one of those.”
Grey eyes traded with her green stare, holding hard to a psychic embrace. “And, as much as I appreciate
our current position. We need to disengage and get home. Besides, you owe me.”
“I pay up quite well, you know.” She helped him. Dusted him off. Arm over shoulder, they limped to the
stairwell and made good their departure. Later, she made good on her offer.
A day or so later, as the news media got bored with plausible denials, Paladin kept watch over his lady.
The knight always on alert. Intuitive wits at a constant state of readiness. She slinked, easing out of the
water, dripping in tempered fitness, straining her black bikini. Protected by the afternoon sun, he relished
the sight and relaxed under the beach cabana. His own skimpy blue bathing suit gave her a pleasing
panorama as well. Together, enjoyed the privacy of their secret place. Yet, they’d anticipated visitors.
“We have company, my love,” she said with breathy lingering intentions. Spotted her pistol under the
soft fluffy beige beach towel. Her eyes assessed his muscular nature, chiseled form and rugged features. “I
suspect working on my tan is over for now. Back to work so soon?”
“We have a generous uncle,” he mused under a breath. “I’m sure saving the world can wait another day.
You think?” He watched Number One approach, attired in a floral print shirt, sandals and baggy casual
khaki pants. The team of agents he brought encamped around the fringes of the perimeter.
“They get younger and younger,” she greeted. “They’re trying very hard to look serious.”
“Yeah, but do they get smarter like you two,” he returned. He plopped down between them. “This is
certainly a splendid spot. An oasis in a dessert of world.” fingers played a silent tune on his brown briar
pipe. “You neutralized seven key assassins in the Casablanca Cult. Lost our contact, but got the vital
information we needed. Unfortunate casualties of war and subsequent collateral damage.” He inhaled,
accepted a welcomed breath of fresh air. “You two are simply amazing. Our most productive team.” His
old eyes glanced at the diver’s knife strapped just above her right ankle.
“Thanks, chief. Appreciate your visit.” Payne accepted the compliments in silence. So did she. “Yes,
this is our version of the Garden of Eden,” Payne answered again grasping a chilled green bottle.
“Champagne? It’s a Bollinger. One of the last remaining independents of its kind. This is the Special
Cuvée, or, the special vintage. Symbolic, don’t you think?”
“Like us, a dying breed,” he replied, accepting a flute of the bubbly pale liquid. “Secret heroes. Quiet
warfare. The way the public likes it. Out of mind, hidden from sight. No fuss no mess in the homeland.
Sheep dogs protecting the flock from ravaging wolves.” Holding up his glass, he offered with affection,
“Here’s to the few, the good and the brave. America produces the best of both women and men.” They
toasted, clinked glasses. That sly smile emerged. He got to the point of the visit. “Credit Suisse in Zurich
has received your bonuses. Now, where’s disc?”
“Again, we’re most grateful to be of service. At the base of your glass.” Payne nodded toward the tiny
clear ceramic diskette. Winked at Myla.
“Clever, Paladin. Viewer?” Number One set down his glass after plucking loose the diskette.
“Try this one,” Payne said, offering him a slim sliver tube. “My handy micro-viewer. You can read the
data and down load it when you get back to the office. This needs to be analyzed in great detail. Nothing’s
moving on the horizon yet. But, soon it will be.” After fetching one of his expensive Cuban cigars, he kept
one hand free, just in case. His pistol never left his side.
“Trans-Global International Force,” Myla told him. “T.G.I.F. That’s what they’re calling the movement
around the world. Global jihad taken to an extreme. Revising the penchant for the fascist militancy of the
Nazis.” She tucked her long legs under her. Tapped on the hilt of her knife. Sipped more champagne. “If
they want a fight. Then we should give them one. Without hesitance, without pause and without mercy.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the elder spy responded. “Yet, we have to appreciate these sensitive times.
Politics, espionage and homeland security is delicate balance of power. At any rate, give me a summary.”
He peered carefully through the lens.
“It’s all right there in living color,” Payne explained. “Crimson planted the last piece of the puzzle in
this.” He tossed the golden cigarette case. “And, don’t smoke this brand. They’re laced with a strain of
Arabic cyanide. Courtesy of Russian chemists. Delivered by Chinese couriers. We’re still in the cold war,
my old friend. It’s just taken on a more modern mask of evil.”
“Dates, times, locations.” Number One scanned the data. “My God. Plans for the commencement of
global Jihad. The initiation of Armageddon. Collusion by the Russians, the Chinese and Muslim extremists
from alleged moderate Middle Eastern countries.”
“Linkages to the incident in London.” Myla verbalized. “Our termination of the cell in New York. And,
finally, a planned triple play detonation of potent nuclear materials inside the U.S. One in Washington,
D.C. near the White House. Another at the New York Stock Exchange. And, one more at Space Command,
Colorado Springs. Our national defense grid. Eyes and ears to global threats. We’d be blind.” She choked
off the passion of her determination to fight the good fight.
“Couldn’t see the attack coming.” Paladin savored a sip of his champagne and a glimpse of the woman
he loved. “The explosion would collapse the interface with national power grid. Seismic concussions would
shut down emergency communications. Like a series of falling dominoes, we’d be in chaos.” He gave sigh,
waited for that to sink in. “We also have listed the base camps, names, deposit accounts. Along with
countries, both friendly and not so friendly. Who’ve colluded in this conspiracy. Counter strikes must be
planned, assembled and implemented without fail.” Then he laughed to himself. She felt it too.
“I certainly concur, but what?” He asked Payne, looked at Myla, and scanned their looks.
“Not much ever changes, or ever will. Nothing is ever new under the sun,” Paladin continued, holding
the hand of his lady. Feeling the soft warmness of her presence. “I can tell by you’re face. You know as
well as I do. The press prods the people to regress. Elevating fear in the guise of news, cloaked in
sensationalism, deception and pretense. Our government retracts. Leadership suffers a failure of nerve.
Politicians pander the polls forsaking the courage of convictions. Priests proselytize platitudes of
piousness.” His exhale gave notice of his growing anger. “We’ll downsize the military, lower our guard and
weaken our defenses. The cowardly will join forces with the meek.” He was proud of the fact, that she was
much a warrior as he.
“Heroes are put away in quiet places.” She gave him a gentle squeeze, reassured she had his back, and
he hers. “Packaged and preserved for the next time. We’ll give in to the deceptions of appeasement. The
criticisms of the valiant soldiers of fortune. In the end, it’s always same. Evil comes around. Hungry,
lurking and thirsting for blood. When the crisis comes, many will die, suffer and cry. And then, once again,
everyone’ll beg for some semblance of moral retribution. As Lady Liberty is struck down again in her
harbor of welcome. Her torch of freedom extinguished. That forlorn damsel in constant distress. And, so, to
save us face, give us peace and grant us one more rest. Terrorized voices rise up. We’ll plead for a knight in
shinning armor.”
The Hunter Haunts the Habitat - by Randy Gonzalez
“The hunt is to chase, pursue or otherwise stalk the prey,” the hunter said to his faithful companion.
“Hound to hell the quarry. A hunter uses stealth, patience and tenacity. One who changes the predator into
the prey.” He felt his faded jeans for a lighter. His sidekick waggled a subtle tail sweep.
Trace Redclay’s Native American heritage reflected his swarthy dark featured appearance. Average
build, fine-looking and strikingly dangerous eyes. Stoic and steady. Some women accused him of being
darkly handsome. Rugged, manly and tempered were his finer points. Plus keen instincts for tracking
criminals. Nothing wrong with that, he pondered, on his split rail front porch. Born and bred in the Smokey
Mountains, he’d learned vital skills for life’s challenges. Survival skills, tactical mindset and huntsman’s
strategy. Long tradition of warriors. Noble, proud and native. Tribal culture in peaceful coexistence with
the superficial post-modern times. Many had long since forgotten the old ways. He hadn’t. Of all the skills
he’d learned, finding people became his favored proclivity. While some hunter’s hunted wild game. He
preferred the most deadly species. Human tracing brought him notoriety. Near legendary status. Added a
bonus to his modestly successful private detective business. For him, the well-trained mindset maintained
the competitive edge for that distinct investigative ability.
“Mind over matter,” he murmured to his canine friend. “Personal armament for dealing with life’s many
lessons.” He respected the advent of his ancestral linage. Learned good and bad in human nature. Dealt
with evil every time he met it. Accepted people where they were. And, what they were. “Yeah, bear dog,”
he continued. “At any given point in time, people will do anything. Kill, rape, maim and murder. That’s our
nature. Hereditary disease of humanity. People haven’t changed much.”
Lazily, without protest, Bear dog yawned, answered with an occasional wag of his tail. Big brown eyes
met those of his master. An understanding exchanged between the two. Both of them, through the years,
had grown old together. Been lots of places. Suffered ups and downs. Scratches and scrapes. Each in his
own line of work wounded protecting one thing or another. Guardians of sorts. Protectors who’d risked life
for someone else. They didn’t hesitate, just did what came natural. One in human form, the other of canis
lupus. Wolves, foxes and jackals. Injuries bleed, scab over and eventually mend. Time, place and company
sometimes cure things. Wounds heal, but memories are forever.
“Something’s in the air,” he groaned an instinctual alert. An essence peaked his senses. Two noses
sniffed at the breeze. Sucked on the whiff of the cool wintry air. “Yep, no doubt. Visitors heading this
way.” His faithful dog agreed. The aging golden retriever cocked his head and eyed the woods. “You know
it too, my old friend. Sounds government.” Together, they sat passively at each other’s side.
Bear dog gave a low growl at the prospect of visitors. Especially if they were federal. Now retired,
Deputy U.S. Marshal Redclay enjoyed his solitude. Resolute bachelorhood. Even though a licensed private
detective in the State of North Carolina. He accepted a case every now and then. But, the primacy of his
hermitage was essential. He’d built the log cabin one timber at a time. Shared its cozy confines with no
one. A female guest stayed every now and then. Like a lone wolf without a pack. His willful independence
kept close to edge of self-imposed solitude, perhaps exile.
“Probably the other feds,” Trace hissed out a breath. Picked up a well-used cherry wood pipe. Stoked
rich vanilla flavored tobacco. From his blue jeans, he pulled out a retirement gift. His gold butane lighter
bore the circular shield of the U.S. Marshal’s badge. Over two hundred years of history blazed, as he lit his
pipe. An ancestor may have guarded George Washington. “I know, pal,” he said to Bear dog. “I’ll quit one
of these days.” A billow of bluish smoke swirled upward. Spiritual presence let loose.
In the distance, a car lumbered off the main highway. Made mechanical noises. Disturbed wildlife.
Brakes scraped wear on metallic components. Dusty clouds whipped. The engine idled, guzzled and broke
the peace, as the driver sought to find his way. He could feel the vibrations. Sense the presence of other
humans. Got a drift of how they felt to be lost. Anxiety disturbed the air. Gut gnawing stress.
As he sank into his thoughts, he wondered where the years had gone. Puffed more billows of smoke out
over the rough hewn railing of the porch. After high school, Trace Redclay went off to college, majored in
forensic anthropology. Got is his Master of Science degree in dead things. After that, he became a cop.
Went to the police academy, and then worked for the state police. From patrol work, he earned his way into
investigations. Still young enough, within the space of few years, he was recruited into the U.S. Marshall
Service. And, following the shooting, took early retirement to his small cabin near Cherokee, North
Carolina. Got his P.I. license. Did consulting work, lectured at the local college. But, this piece of land
became his sanctuary from human evil. Including his own nature.
Nurture and will gave intent to a killer’s bullet. Remnants hung menacingly near the lumbar region of
his spine. Doctors said he should be paralyzed. Mystic notions said otherwise. Mysteries of ancient wisdom
kept him moving. Being alive and appreciative for the mind and the magic of human possibilities. Although
the pain came and went, he’d taught his mind to deal with it. Without painful reminders, life has no
meaning, he considered. Without meaning, there’s no life. A lifeless form drifts for an eternity.
“Well, bear,” Trace said warmly to his dog. Teetered in his rocking chair. Shifted to one side. Ached a
little. Puffed some smoke while they speculated on their intruders. At the same time, the two watched fish
stir the water in a green shrouded pond. Frogs croaked echoes atop lazy lily pads. “Looks like we got us
another visitor to the reservation. For sure, two in fact.” The golden retriever seemed to nod and raise some
fur along his back. Trace pulled his glowing pipe out of his mouth. Blew another stream of grey-blue
smoky haze. Black eyes in a face fit for Mount Rushmore, scanned the approaching car. “Feds,” he told the
dog. Neither seemed impressed. “FBI to be precise. Unmistakable. The tell tale signs are all there.”
Brakes squealed. Gravel groaned under rubber and metal. Dusty reddish clay clouds settled around the
car. The government issue white Chevy sedan rolled to a stop. Engine idled roughly, coughed and then
went dead. Headlights clicked off. Two occupants blinked in the fading light of the dense forest. They tried
to decide what to do next. Trace propped an elbow on an arm of his rocker. With the other hand, fingers
tapped the butt of his old .357 magnum Smith and Wesson. The six shot snub nose had a dull stainless steel
finish. Each bullet hand loaded by him. Heavy duty grizzly bear stopping power.
“Great, out in the middle of nowhere,” the male agent said to his female partner. “How’d the hell we
actually find his cabin. God, I’d love to be back at the Atlanta Field Office.” His face soured.
“Easy city boy. GPS, NSA and just about every other mapping system we could find. Got us this far.
Found our man,” the female agent cheered. Flipped her short brown hair with a nervous hand. “That’s him,
huh? The legendary Trace Redclay. What’da ya know. You don’t meet a living legend every day. Looks
pretty good for a retired old deputy U.S. Marshal.” The hint of special interest lingered.
“Yeah, go figure,” her counterpart added sourly. His well-groomed all-American looks glimmered in the
dusk of the later afternoon. He sweat through his starched shirt. “Who knows?”
“Serious features,” she noted the outline of Trace’s face. “Hmm, weathered a bit. Hopefully, useful to
us. We’re under orders, you know. Someone above us likes him.” For a second, they stared at each. Made
eye contact, her and Trace. Found some momentary connectivity. Static energy. She from the car, and he
from his vigil at the cabin. “We need to make nice with the locals.” Controlled smiles seemed to smirk in a
matter of seconds. She appraised the blue jeans, faded red denim shirt. The wavy black hair, swept back.
Faint touches of grey slicked the temples. “They say he knows his craft well.”
“Some legend,” the male agent tossed back. “Lives like a hermit. Middle of god forsaken woods.”
“Purely from a female perspective though,” she cautioned. “Not bad to look at. Kinda easy on the eyes.”
She breathed an anxious sigh. “Let’s see what else he’s got to offer. Not bad at all.” Gently, one finger
brushed her pistol on her side. Considered the standoff had ended. “We should go up there.”
“Okay, I give up, what makes him such a legend? I mean for god sakes. We’re the flipping FBI. High
tech and cutting edge. After all, we’re the profilers.” The male agent boasted. Frowned curved lips. Hands
still gripping the steering wheel. His thoughts recovered from rough ragged mountain roads.
“Three reasons. For one,” she started, fingering a manila file on her lap. A red painted fingernail flipped
one corner. The cover emblazoned with the FBI logo. “He’s solved a number of cold cases. Tracked down
missing persons, solved homicides and help capture elusive sex offenders. Cases others had given up on.
For the second reason. He’s written a number of articles on crime analysis, M.O.’s, human tracking and so
forth. Made a name for himself in his consulting practice. Revered among the tribe around here. As well as
the locals. Kinda like a ghost, something spiritual.” She took a breath. “He’s a cult hero.”
“And three,” the male agent interrupted. “We were ordered to find him and work with him, right?” His
blue eyes checked the perimeter and gazed over the cabin. “Nice place. If you like rural. Appears like a
cabin ought to look. Logs, fireplace, stone work. Something out of an old country living magazine. He’s
not making any move to greet us or anything. My god, we’re the Bureau.”
“No wait, there’s a fourth,” she went on. “He’s written a text book and teaches at the local community
college.” She reached for the door handle. “Fifth, Trace Redclay is a hard core practitioner in the field of
criminology. Teaches what he preaches. Practices what he teaches. Been there, done that and got to wear
the tee shirt. Even lived to tell about it. He’s a lone gunman of sorts. And, he knows our suspect.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” The male agent snarled. “That’s the key to the real thing. But, he’s also one of the
few with the guts to criticize our Behavioral Sciences Unit. Challenged our profiling theories. What kind of
nerve is that? He’s not a fan of our psychological program, or us. But, for now, maybe we give him credit.
They say he’s good at what he does. Can track down just about anyone or anything.”
“Right, so we do what we do best,” she encouraged. “We use him. Then take credit. Another career
builder in progress. No muss no fuss. He screws up, we blame him. Plus,” she plotted with care. “He’s
connected to this case. Right? Brought this nut bag in on fugitive warrant.”
“Perfect.” The male agent opened his door and stepped out. Adjusted his navy blue suit jacket. Tucked
in his starched white shirt. Checked his hair the side mirror. Sandy brown, styled and waved by trendy
fashion. Felt his gun. All-American clean cut boy. She did likewise. Style police. “Let’s not forget. He’s a
renegade malcontent. And, we’re consulting with this guy? Even though orders from headquarters.”
“Easy Bear,” Redclay calmed the dog, as the K-9 snarled. “Don’t bite the nice federal agents.” He blew
out billow of grayish smoke. Stretched his back. “They might sue us under some federal law.”
“Marshal Redclay,” she said, smooth and kindly. Eyes inventorying. “May we talk with you, sir?”
“Sure, no problem, come on up. Please do, join me.” Trace waved them to the porch. His right hand
angled to his revolver. “Remember, Bear. Trust no one,” He whispered low to the dog, “Any trouble, if
they’re not FBI. I could drop both of them. Before they could get those fancy fed guns out they’re holsters.
Then you could bite them after that.” The dog appeared to nod his lion-like mane of head and thick fur.
“Yep, I knew you’d enjoy that. Good dog.” Casually, he handed his old friend a doggy treat.
“Is he friendly?” The female agent asked.
“Me or the dog?” Redclay answered. He chewed his pipe. Gauged her presence. Tossed her a once over.
Vertical and horizontal assessment. Rounded contours. Skin too pale. Yet, not bad, he considered. Eyes
leveled a meeting of the minds. His dark brooding black eyes to her bright sky blue ones. Slowly, he raised
his tall lean form. “Hello, Trace.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“I suspect your bite’s worse than his,” she answered, leveled to meet his gaze. Cocked an eyebrow. “I’m
Special Agent Amber Waves.” One hand held up her I.D., the other took his out as well. “This is my
partner, Special Agent Dewey Meadows.” Her partner did likewise. They shook hands. “We’d like to meet
with you. If you can spare us the time.” A chuckle almost fell out from her partner.
“Yes, yes,” Meadows damped his arrogance, pulled back a snort, and feigned a cough. Realized he’d
stepped on an imaginary social cow pie. Redclay had sensed it immediately. Gave Dewey a sly
unimpressed smirk. “Uh, we’d appreciate your help on a case.”
“Okay, you’re meeting with me now,” Redclay replied, let out a slow hiss of smoke. Blew it off to one
side. “Come on. Please, have a seat. Join me here. Bear dog’s harmless right now. Can be vicious when it
comes to protecting himself or me. Coffee? Anything I can get you. Please have a seat.” Trace gestured
toward two more wooden rocking chairs. Rose in genteel gentlemanly fashion. They got situated around a
log hewn coffee table. A white thermos sat quietly. “I just made this an hour or so ago. Strong stuff.”
“Sure, don’t mind if we do.” She stepped up on the huge planks of the porch. Skimmed a quick view of
the expansive area. Noted the hand carved rustic nature of the fixtures. Including the deck, chairs, and the
cabin itself. She and her partner accepted coffee. Trace carefully filled two more white ceramic cups.
“Were you expecting us? You have two more cups ready.” She pondered his precognitive abilities.
“News travels fast around here,” Redclay teased. “Drum beats, you know.”
“Uh, well, yes, I guess you could say that,” Agent Waves answered. She took a sip of coffee. He was
right. Very strong. She cleared her throat. Opened the file and put it on the table. “Here’s what we got.”
“Knavery Bliss,” Redclay said. His tone sullen, supported by a frown. “A-K-A, the Collector.” His eyes
had narrowed as he read the name on the file. Even though the page was upside-down. Sinking back his
rocker. Closed his eyes. Holding his coffee cup to his thin lips, he added, “You sure you don’t want to call
out the National Guard. Deploy snipers and kill this guy on sight?”
“You know we can’t do that,” Agent Meadows stepped lightly around the issue. “Legal requirements,
rules, et cetera. This fruit cake has to be arrested and brought to trial. Get Justice.”
“Uh, what my partner means is,” Agent Waves waded in. “He’s escaped and we have to find him.”
“Bliss is no fruit cake. Like I said. Find and kill him. That’s justice.” Redclay put down his cup. Picked
up his pipe. “Knavery’s blizzard cold. Clever as a jackal. More deadly than a rattlesnake. He knows exactly
what he’s doing. As human as the rest of us. Yet, prone to mistakes. Makes bad choices. That’s what got
him caught. I carry a piece of his premeditation in my back.”
“Yes, we know. But, aside from that,” Agent Meadows grazed over the comments. “He fits our profile.
And…Well, we know you’d be an asset to our team.”
“No he doesn’t,” Trace countered. Marked out his opposition. “That’s why you couldn’t catch him back
then. We tracked him down based on material facts. Logical deduction. Each piece of the puzzle carefully
assembled. From which, the Marshals brought him in. Lost two of my men. Got wounded myself. Pissed
off enough to ignore the bullet wound. Wanted to kill him right there. Too many witnesses.”
“We’re sincerely remorseful about that. However, seems like we might have room for disagreement
here,” Agent Waves signaled. Beckoned Agent Meadows to grip a holding pattern. “So, Marshal, can you
help us? Any information will be greatly appreciated. And, you’ll be compensated as a special federal
consultant on the case. Bottom line, we need your assistance.”
“I don’t care about that. You realize this killer’s like a chameleon,” Trace started to map out his
thoughts. “He adapts, overcomes and improvises. Changes and alters his actions, his thinking and covers
his tracks.” He rekindled the sweet smelling tobacco in his pipe. Puffed grey haze. Looked at them both
with a dead serious blackened gaze. “Bliss enjoys the ecstasy of the hunt. A hound from hell. Death turns
him on. Sensual nature of crime. Sex for him. Which he delights in its seduction. Misery in others is his
salacious thrill.” Trace let flow a stream of smoke. “He’s not a crazed psychotic killer. Knavery likes death.
For him, it’s erotic. A way to unleash latent fantasies. This is about his latent sexuality.”
“Will you help us then?” Agent Waves asked again. Cleared her throat with a deep sigh. Adjusted the
collar of her neatly pressed white shirt. “Time is critical at the moment.”
“He’s here isn’t he?” Trace queried her. Rolled his eyes. Squinted into the growing dusk. “Goddammit. I
sensed it.” Shook his head. “Answer’s yes. Dead or alive. We’ll find him. Or, he’ll find us. Probably has.”
He scanned the landscape of the little compound. “Of course you know. He might be watching right now.
Followed you two out here.” Trace snarled a frown. “How many weapons do you have? Because this guy
knows how to fight, stalk and kill living things. He’s one mean son of a bitch.”
“Correct,” Agent Meadows began. Took the file from Waves. “Noted in his file is the martial arts
background. He’s was an instructor, as well as a high school physics teacher. Had a private karate school
right her in Cherokee. A penchant for prepubescent girls. Well-educated. Expert marksman, skilled hunter
and trapper. Upper middle class parents.” His dampened response paused. Clammy fingers paged the file.
Humid soggy thoughts labored the details. For a moment, his mind grazed the data. “You’re right. He never
did fit our profile. Regardless, he’s a dangerous predator.”
“Added to that,” Trace said, ignoring the thunderous admission. “An avid outdoorsman, mountain hiker
and camping enthusiast. He could survive out here and you’d never find him. No matter how many profiles
you did. Or, how many trackers you employed. That goddamn murdering bastard went to school with me. I
know the son of bitch. In fact, we…”
“Hunted together,” Agent Waves finished the statement. “We know that. So, I want to tell you…”
“Okay fine. Now, let me tell you,” Trace followed up. Stabbing the air with his pipe. “The Collector
makes no distinction between men, women or children. He tough, sadistic and cruel. At the same time, he’s
kind, generous and religious. Got away with killing for years. Went underground. Stuffed and mounted his
trophies. Came back for more. And, guess what? He’s also a magician. Knows the tricks. So, you can’t get
inside of his mind. That’s an illusion.”
“The perfect criminal,” Dewey speculated. Dribbled an ooze of conjecture. Reflected on the
pseudoscience behind the glitz and glamour of his theories. “This serial killer escaped from his cell.”
“Serial killer? Please, spare me the psycho-babble. He’s a multi-murderer period. Escaped? Yeah,
how’d he do that from federal court?” Trace already knew the answer. “Marshals protect the court system.
We don’t allow escapes. Especially not for some guy like this.”
“Uh, well,” Agent Meadows stumbled his reply. “Agents from the B.S.U. were assigned. They wanted
an opportunity to study him. Get inside, uh, you know. His mind so to speak.” Clearly uncomfortable with
this line of pampered reasoning, Agent Meadows the obvious snafu.
“So, instead of seasoned field agents,” Trace intoned with condescending delight. Over which, crimson
disillusion flushed over his thoughts. Cherry-red heat of disappointment flare up. “You had him. But,
politics trumped proper planning. Naturally, without such, you can’t prevent poor performance.”
“Order from Washington,” Dewey defended. “U.S. Marshals instructed to stand down.”
“Go figure,” Trace replied. Sucked his pipe. Pacified his oral needs at the moment. “Alright, can’t waste
energy over the fact the horse’s out of the barn. Now, we have to get him back.”
“Before he kills again,” Waves added sourly. “Will he, you think?”
“Of course he will,” Redclay hissed a reply. “Once a jackal has the scent of blood. He’s gonna do
something to satisfy the hunger. Cunning, resourceful and clever, they hunt with patient senses. Honed by a
lifetime of observing, adapting and scavenging. Notice anything else in his file?”
“Military background, right?” Agent Meadows glistened his testy response. “Loner type. Army sniper
school. Exchange program with the British S.A.S.” He satisfied a hazy need to pause. Let it sink in. “Okay,
he’s got extraordinary training, education and social success. So what?”
“Just wanted to make a point,” Redclay retraced. Backtracked over his thoughts. Became more
animated. “You’re not dealing with some gothic fantasy of Jack the Ripper. He’s the real deal. All
American boy wonder. Highly trained and motivated. By the best. Our own federal government. Not to
forget a fully accredited academic institution. Upper crust success. Wasn’t abused by his parents. Neither
bullied in school nor disadvantaged by social status. No excuses. Just deliberate enjoyment of killing for
personal uses. Gutsy bastard. Now you see him. Now you don’t. Poof, demonic capabilities. Human
nature’s dark side.” Trace waved his hands. Pretended he’d done a magic trick.
“While that may be,” Agent Waves responded. Relished her defensive posture. Tossed a strand of hair
back in place. Met his eyes for a longer lingering moment. Possibilities she thought. “Our research
concludes his stereotypic template. Indicative of an anti-social personality type. And, based on our
geometric database. He fits the profile of a serial killer.”
“Uh huh, I guess that solves it then,” Trace intoned with a nasal inhale. Subtly of sarcasm hung in the
air. Redclay drew on his pipe. Pondered the ancient ways. Envisioned for a moment. Big camp fire. War
paint. Feathered headdress and drum beats. Chanted echoes. A hunting party ready to do battle. All about
the hunt. Yeah, much simpler times. He blew a cloud of smoke. And, went on to add, “Nothing for me to
do. You’ve got a profile. All the answers. By the way. Was that before we caught him or after?”
“Well, naturally, these profiles work best,” Agent Meadows chomped to answer. “When you’ve got the
suspect in custody. From there, you just make it all work out.”
“Yep,” Trace answered. Looked out toward the dense thicket of underbrush. Thickets and thorns
hugging huge pine trees. Smells of forest in the breeze. “Why didn’t I realize it was all that easy.” Another
sip of strong sturdy coffee. “When I teach at the local college here. Know how many times some of my
students ask me about criminal profiling? How they become profilers?”
“Wouldn’t know,” Agent Meadows replied. Continued to skim over the neat clean well-organized,
annotated and formatted file. A maze of statistical detail. “I’m sure it comes up a lot these days.”
“Sure ‘nough, comes up a bunch,” Trace sauntered a lazy response. “Most want to know how to become
psycho-profilers just like that.” He snapped his fingers. Caused Agent Waves to jump. “Seems more and
more. People want short cuts. Gadgets and gizmos. Limited patience and perseverance. Dedication to the
hunt. Follow, track and stalk your quarry.” He blazed the rekindling of his pipe. Let out a long stream. “A
lot of them want to start out right off as detectives. But, very few want to be cops first. Learning the skills.
The art and craft of the practitioner’s way. Search in chase of the quest.”
“Right, uh yes indeed. We realize that’s a problem with the sensationalism in the modern media,” Agent
Waves sought to explain. “None the less. What ever you need. You got it. We want this guy.”
“Sure you do,” Red said, as he sensed Bear Dog’s sudden movement. “He made you look bad. Doesn’t
sell too well at a press conference.” He held to the scent alongside his faithful companion. Something in the
gentle wind. Puff of air. Zephyr in a gust of shifting smells. Very discreet and careful stir of leaves.
“Regardless, the challenge is in the evidentiary artifacts. Can you find the clues?”
“That’s what we’re hoping you’ll help us with,” Agent Waves invited him.
“In the meantime,” Trace started. Let his eyes skim the tree line. Inhaled a suspicious breath. “Never let
your guard down. Stay focused, Agent Waves.” His head cocked sideways in her direction. Quick glances
ferreted between her and the woods. Set his pipe and cup down with deliberate placement. Bear Dog
shifted, pointed and bristled. Something’s afoot. Fallen tree branches. Leaves floating lightly at the tug of
gravity. Decayed leafy remnants crushed under weighted pressure. “Get down!” he yelled.
Crawl, slither and stealth. Hunter hunts prey. Cover, concealment and camouflage. Hound, follow and
track earthly passages. By each footpath, stake out the kill. Sense the fear. Smell the blood. Sight picture,
breathing, posture and trigger squeeze. Aim, fixate and fire. Ease of motion, willfulness of intent.
Thunderous reverberation. Boom, flash, horrendous explosion. Billow of grey-black smoke. Report, recoil,
bolt action recovery. Realign, repeat the procedures. Stay on target. Don’t flinch. Thunder and lightening of
potent blasting forces. Mock the weakness, maim the cowering animal and terminated the prey.
Chance and circumstance favor the determined mind. Redclay honed his sensory array. An executioner
met his opposite self. Competition could turn predator to prey. One split second before, the killer’s nemesis
redirected the chain of events. Without hesitance, Trace threw himself across Agent Waves’ body. A
person he didn’t know. Yet, sacrificed himself to protect. Flattened her to the hard rough planks. Sprawled
his body over hers. She let out a heavy heave of crushed air. Gasped, coughed and spat in her labored
wheeze. Simultaneous actions worked the timing. From sensation to effect, trace also kicked over the
coffee table. Crashed cups and coffee in splattering spill. Shoved Agent Meadows to one side.
Redclay cursed as the momentum went slow motion. Believing his timing out of sync, he saw the terror
in Agent Meadows. At the same fraction of an instant, Agent Meadows received the devastating impact of a
30.06 hunting bullet. He jerked upward and backward. Clutched his chest, just over his heart. Hit full force
as if a baseball bat smacked the sternum bone. Agent Meadows was shoved with vicious forceful thrust and
smashing impact. Blood squirted drenching crimson arcs. Wide-eyed, he sucked wind, gulped and
collapsed. Face framed by shock and fear. Silence and unconsciousness followed. Death stalked the prey it
sought. But, missed the primary target. Life slipped away, while Agent Meadow’s body shuddered in
trembling spasms. Slumped in a human heap at Redclay’s front door.
In the fragments of seconds that transpired, the hunter casually, with a cocky flare, reloaded. Bolt action,
calm deliberate expectation. Arrogant in the pretext of an all knowing attitude. Smug, deceitful and
cunning, an untrustworthy knave by any measure. And, naturally normal as species can be. Bent on
destructive prurient self-interests. Collecting artifacts of human trophies. Sensual ecstasy in the enjoyment
of blissful delight for greedy purposes. Harmonious instincts for personal pleasures. The Collector fired
three more times. His two remaining targets rolled and dodged the gunfire.
“Son of a bitch!” Trace rolled off Agent Waves. Revolver in hand. Training, reflex and mental acuity.
He fired all six rounds into the woods. Heard a yelp and then quiet. “Here, call it in, Agent Waves. Your
partners down. Need backup.” Trace kept an eye out for further threats. He low crawled off the porch.
Reloaded with swift effort. Vanished into the thickets. Bear Dog had gone on the hunt. Disappeared during
the fire fight. “Bear Dog? Watch your fur coat, old friend,” he whispered.
“They’re on the way,” Agent Waves said. Somber tone numbed her thoughts. Bit a chunk out of her
emotional state. Sniffles pulled back by a coat sleeve. Eyes watered over for brief moments. Her rumpled
appearance reflected the aftermath of Trace’s protective reaction. Sorrow held the compunction of regret.
Things said and unsaid. Too late now. “He’s dead. Agent Meadows. No response in his vitals. Through and
through hit. My god,” she heaved a sudden shudder. “Blew bad hole in his chest. Blood splattered every
where.” Her words were flat. Guilt laden. “I ran after you for backup.” She winced as sirens blared in the
distance. Cleared her throat and added, “What’s this? Blood trail?”
“Sniper’s nest,” Trace answered. In his mind, drumbeats far away, dissociated from the present. Old
customs haunted the habitat. Folklore in the memory of ancient times. “Nearly a hundred yards from the
cabin. Bear Dog found it.” His canine panted nearby. Trace Sought to initiate some sorrow for her loss.
Detached mindset, focused on dangers and threats. Replaced an inclination to shame or sadness. None the
less, he feigned a regretful feeling. “Sorry about your partner.” His keen senses surveyed the area. Eyes
circled an imaginary quadrant. Close quarters habitation examined in detail. Up and down. Left, right back
to the left. “Collector’s gone. Blood trails, yes. He’s wounded.”
“You got him?” Agent Waves allowed surprise to surface. “Where’s the body?”
“Only wounded. Looks that way,” Trace said. Glanced down at Bear Dog. Squatted and touched the
ground. “I must be getting old. Six shots. Should’ve killed him. Aim angle off too much.” He blew out a
long breath. “Damn. Another time, another era. Distance wouldn’t have mattered.” For a second, he tasted
the tangy leftover from his pipe. He’d reholstered his gun at his right side. “That way,” he offered her.
Pointed one finger. “Collector’s gone to his hideout. Bear Dog’s nose aims over there.”
“Yeah, but. What the heck? From that distance. Not bat shooting, I’d say. And, you’re dog. Is he
pointing the direction?” Agent Waves asked, swallowing hard the loss of her partner. “How does he know
that? I mean what’s the technology behind that.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Evolutionary process. No time to explain. To answer your question about Bear. Yes,” he told her.
“Some where, close. Collector has a lair. Interesting that he’s in my neck of the woods.”
“Let’s go,” she advised while she sucked up her pain.
“Wait,” trace held up an open hand. “Crime scene back there. My home is now part of this case. You
should stay. See to your partner. Ensure the scene is processed. Organize the others.” At that precise
instant, an eagle screeched overhead. Seemed to gesture a tipped wing at Redclay. Screeched again. Trace
rolled his eyes upward. Craned his neck. Nodded his head. Watched the sky hunter circle the dense forest
habitat. “Another sign from another who hunts,” he said to Agent Waves. “No time to waste.”
“You need back up,” she demanded asserted her authority. “Crime scene needs protecting. Then again,
so do you. Tough call. Our objective’s the Collector.”
“You’re correct. I do need a backup. And, most times, I’d agree.” Trace turned and made a subtle hand
movement. Bear Dog headed for a pathway. He followed as the trusty canine led the way. “This is one of
those exceptions. You’ll never find him out there. Bear Dog and I can. Your call, Agent Waves.
Sometimes, these things aren’t that simple. Rules changes. Procedures vary.”
“Right now, two guns are better than one. Plus a dog.” She remained adamant. Flexed an eyebrow.
Forced a smile and paced after him. Shivered as she braced against the onset of winter. Autumn tones
hinted rusty color patterns. Icy wisps invited lower temperatures. “Wrong clothes, bad timing,” she
murmured. “Business suit and all the trappings of the city. Yeah, and you’re right. Rules are guidelines.
You nearly broke one. Going off without backup,” she spat. Got a little disoriented when he disappeared.
Slits of bare illumination sliced the forest. Fortunately, she could hear the whisper of his voice. “Wait for
me. Where are you? Can’t see you, Trace.”
“This way and no loud talking,” he pointed, ignored the comment about rule breaking. “Shhh, be real
quiet. My ancestors are listening. So is the collector.” Sometimes, he considered. There are no rules.
Situational ethics come to bear. Do what you have to do. Depends on what applies at the moment. “No, not
there. Wrong path. This one over here. Stay with me on this.” He’d slipped out of the veil of shadows and
slid up behind her. A ginger pat on the shoulder redirected her energies. “It’s okay. There’s really no magic
to hunting. Visual acuity, spatial alacrity and sensory sharpness. Simple things.”
“Basic academy one oh one? How the hell you know all this?” She dodged a low hanging limb. Bumped
her head. Took a scrape from a thorny branch. Cursed a few expletives. Said a few f-words. Felt a
headache. “What the hell am I doing? We should have helicopters. Sat-links and computers. Search and
rescue teams. SWAT and GPS tracking and surveillance.”
“You’re doing fine,” he whispered. Almost as if a breeze with words whipped by. “Yeah, all the techno-
stuff. Didn’t help before.” Trace easily crept through the jungle primeval. “I prefer low-tech. all those
gadgets and gizmos. We forget good old fashioned skills. Logic and reason. Crime-fighting’s about the
hunt. Follow the evidence trail. Don’t get sidetracked on crystal ball theories.”
“Blood trail?” She pointed. Almost stumbled over Bear Dog. The canine bristled and porcupined his fur.
Didn’t make a sound. Simply waited. “He’s onto something?”
“Yep,” Trace confirmed. Stooping cautiously, watching each direction. One hand on his gun. His
thoughts on his boot knife. Other thoughts on the scent of the blood. Never know. Just in case. Trace lifted
a blood soaked twig. He sniffed. “We need to keep moving. Let’s go.”
“Well, what’ve we got?” She implored in hushed tone.
“Later. We must stay on track. Keep in motion.” Trace edged the thin outline of shadowy reflection.
Maintained his vigil along discreet angles of the trail. “Listen to the sounds very carefully.”
“A little spooky,” she uttered barely audible. Her gun in hand, ready.
“I must be getting old,” Trace mumbled to himself. “How’d he get that close? Not only that. Why’d he
come back to my hunting grounds?” From there, they stalked into darkened wooded surroundings. Light
faded to darkness. Together, they trekked the steep inclines. Climbed jagged rough terrain for quite a
distance. She was exhausted puffing for each savored breath. Then he said to her, “Yes, by the way. Cell
phones don’t work too well up here. No towers for relays signals. We’re pretty much on our own.”
“Great,” she cursed under her breath. Her hands flicked over the tiny buttons on her cell phone.
Coolness of the air accentuated each exhale. “My god. It’s like being stranded in a strange land.”
“Stop,” he ordered at the moment he heard a twig snap. Something else made a noise. A noose coiling
around its prey. His tone echoed deadness. Silence of dangerous warning. “Don’t move. Control your
breathing and keep every muscle very still.” Specters, ghosts, haunting images flashed in unseen realms.
Fear raged the pursuit of intense anxiousness. “That’s good. Stay right there.”
“What is it?” She worried, fretted, became alarmed. Anxiety triggered stress. Fight or flight.
“Something’s on my ankle?” Chills shot up her spine. Goosebumps pelted the skin of her back. Up and
over her shoulders. She felt his hand trace the outline of her trousers. Slowly, feeling her down to the calf
muscle. From knee to ankle, he held onto her. His gentle touch seemed soothing. “I can’t see anything.”
Darkness precluded visual inspection. He was behind her. Crouched low to ground level. She saw a silvery
flash of a knife blade. “Booby trap? Land mine, what?”
“Exactly,” he whispered up to her. “All of the above. We’re on the outer perimeter of his habitat. No
doubt the collector has snares set placed around his burrow. You’re standing on one of them.”
“How’d you miss it?” She regained psychic footing. “Wait,” she pulled back. “I mean, we should’ve
known. Or, guessed. I didn’t use caution.” Agent Waves blamed herself.
“I sensed it. You found it before I could say anything,” he answered. “Yes, we both could’ve been more
cautious. Right now, it’s what we call a moot point.”
As he worked in calm assurance, he slid the blade between ankle and noose. Quiet, tender and centered,
he seesawed the razored release of cord and limb. Patience invited precise focus. Sensory array fully armed
and cocked around the hunt’s psychic intensity. Snared on the quiet edge of the killer’s corner. Always, the
question remains. Looms from the shadows of mind. Who is the hunter and what is the prey? There they
were. Roles switched back and forth. Trackers pursued the wounded animal. But, an injured beast is more
dangerous. Without warning, the stalkers became the prey. Trapped by ambush of hidden ruse. Outer
perimeter held unsuspecting entrapment. Duped by momentary lapse of vigilance.
“The hunt goes to the watchful,” Trace said to her. Wrapped one hand around her ankle. Held the rope
in the other. Tied off a makeshift decoy. “Don’t move,” he reminded. “He’s got noise makers in the trees.
This rope jerks you off the ground. Your body is whipped against the trunk. Spikes impale you. Rings the
handmade wind chimes on the limbs. You die upside down. Bleed out like a deer.”
“There’s a pleasant thought,” she admonished herself in subtle fashion. “Look. Over there. What? About
a hundred yards or so?” Her attention caught the glimmer of illumination. In the distance, a tiny flicker
waived a candle-light glow. Reddish orange beacon through thickets of forest. “Some minor light.”
“Mouth of a cave,” he whispered back. Satisfied he’d secured the snare. “Part of an old mine shaft.
Plenty of places to hide. Actually, he could live out here forever. No one would find him.”
“Except you did,” she congratulated. “Knew right where to go. Saved us time and effort.”
“Don’t count the pelts until you have the beaver,” Trace quipped.
“Curious saying, Marshal Redclay,” she answered.
“Just an old piece of advice from around here,” he replied. “Take it easy from here on in. No rush to
catch the quarry. Stealth and surprise. He shouldn’t even know we’re here yet.”
“Didn’t think we’d come after him so soon?” She queried. “Knows our tactics.” Agent Waves spit a
curse. Let go some expletives, while she scanned the periphery. “Bliss knows we’re coming.”
“Yes he does. Knave Bliss isn’t stupid. Dangerous yes. Not crazy either. Criminals know exactly what
they’re doing.” He paused. Inhaled a long breath. Sensed the forces at work. Told her, “He figured you’d
fetch over-whelming firepower,” Redclay continued. “Protect the crime scene. Wait for reinforcements.
Grieve the loss of your partner. Delay, agonize and waste time deciding.” He moved slowly to his left.
Then to the right. Stopped, took in the pitch darkness that formed a void. One careful step at time. got a feel
for the ground, the trees the bushes and Bear Dog. Every single breath counted. Each body movement
calculated. “Let’s go. We got three to one odds on our side.” Trace slipped into the shadowy recesses.
“Right behind you,” she murmured, pistol close to her side.
“Here it is,” he whispered as a ghostly image next to her. “His lair. Collector’s mountain hideout. Notice
the blood trail.” He pointed with one finger. They stood at the rock strewn opening. “An old quarry.
Abandoned long ago. No one knows who owns it now.”
“Got a new resident though,” she muttered, went to a crouched position.
“Easy now, Annie Oakley,” he hummed in a mumble. “Keep that gun down range.” With one arm, he
gestured her to the right side of the cave’s entrance. “Watch out for all the ramble. Place’s full of pits,
jagged edges and cave-ins. Cavern’s full of nasty surprises.”
“It’s lit up,” she spoke with surprise. “Old track lighting. Amber tinted. Kind of yellowish. From the
mining days.” Her eyes met his. They pondered the trap. “Power source? Batteries?”
“I’m more concerned about the invitation he’s giving us,” Trace replied sourly. “He’s probably stealing
the electricity from the local utility company. Makeshift wiring. Who knows and who cares.” As he eased
around a huge fractured boulder, he added, “Take left. Along the wall. I’m on the right.” Trace glanced
down to Bear Dog. “You got the point. Don’t get shot, old friend.” They nodded understanding to each
other. Depths of partnered connectivity understand by special bond. “Two hunters. Now three. One prey,”
he murmured quietly to himself. “Track, hunt down and capture.”
Agent Waves became distracted by demonic reflections. Inside, the chamber of horrors drew pale
yellow glows from small shafts of light. Frayed flickers gave ambient shining blushes. Glimmering rusty
tin eyeballs. Blinking at them. Always expecting death. Dusty thin wires met tarnished lanterns, affixed to
ancient excavations. Well-used, worn and tired, the old pit worked its scary mystique. From the bare lights,
rocks cast sparkles of golden luminosity. Shadowy ghouls inched closer, while the mind played games. To
see is to believe, because mental alacrity wants the vent of inner desires.
Under their slow, methodical movements, gravel annoyed tiny sounds. A breath here and a breath there.
With each exhale, puffed frigid air, near invisible, formed little clouds. Phantoms spent from used spittle.
Bites of noise slipped in and around their full attention. Senses peaked for the prey’s potential threats.
Blood sport stalking pursuit. At any moment, the fox hunt could switch sides. Hounds devoured by the
werewolf. Psychic transformations moving across dark mental landscapes. Scratchy din formed distracting
undertones. Crunches nettled the attempt at discrete entry to the long blackened grotto.
Frigid frost chilled mountain water oozed murky seepage. Dribbled through cracks in cave walls. Ran
down strands of ageless stone stretches. As though blood seeped from open wounds. Every pulsation beat
one more strangled effort. Dampened residue dripped puddles at their feet. Bitter coldness stung the
exposed surfaces of skin. Reddened the sensation. Smells turned foul. Rotted flesh, piles of bones. From
feast to famine. Gluttony consumed the endless quest to feed lustful needs.
“Oh my god,” Agent Waves hushed a spurt of air. Sniffled gasp. Recoil at persistent tugs for inhale of
rotted flesh. “Decomposition. How disgusting.” Stench wrapped around sensate pulses. Sinus cavities
gorged on the tormenting gore. Stung potency of pungent resistance to putrefied wormy cannibalism.
“Geez, what the hell is this?” She wanted to throw up. But, kept down the urge. She took in the foul spent
atmosphere. Pale lights showed the recycled ritual of death. She stuffed a handkerchief to her face. Sucked
the cotton fibers. Smelled her stale perfume. And, mouthed another horrified grimace. Again, she fought
back the urge to puke. “Goddammit, the stench.”
“Real life,” he whispered as if an ancient spirit had entered the tunneled tomb. “Neither animal nor
demon. Just human nature on the hunt.”
Redclay encouraged her silence. Gingerly tugged her elbow. Likewise, he fought the indigestible
foulness attacking his senses. He said nothing more and remained alert. Filled his thoughts with ancient
ceremonies, bonfires for spirited rituals and war painted faces. Meanwhile the enemy got closer. All around
them, mold, decay and putrid scents mingled in the gloominess. Doomed darkness, celebrated the cycle by
which lives end. All things waiting for death.
Agent Waves thought of pasty ghosts, scarlet banshees and hideous grey goblins. Fearful images of
macabre murderous forms. Haunting specters recreating in torture, impalement and death. Bodies torn by
razor teeth, shredding flesh and drooling incisors dripping blood. Wild dogs feasting the thrill of the kill.
More like wolves frenzied by the feeding of the pack. Thought zones flashed in her mind. Feeling jerked a
spinal tap in nervous twitch of logic. Where motive became seemed to always reside in the simplistic. Yet,
reality taught otherwise. Opportunity changed. Altered its course. Another word for the hunt. Intent much
more realistic. Where the means of murder causes the mechanism of tormented demise.
“Wait,” he said. Slipped up behind her. Grabbed her arm. Vice grip to her arm. Swoosh of action. Hip
throw to the ground. Tossed her behind cover. A crumbled mining cart. Piles of old wooden barrels. In the
blaze of a split second. There followed a horrendous thunder. Several more in rapid succession. Loud, ear
busting and calamitous multiple shotgun blasts. “Cover yourself!”
“What the…,” her voice trailed. She shrieked. No time to think. Only be instinctive. One’s body knows.
Thoughts have to catch up with impulses. Put things in perspective. “Gunfire!”
“I said, get down!” He ordered. Quick, agile recoil. “Goddammit!” he yelled. “Shock waves. Can’t
hear.” Redclay felt heat from the explosions. Buckshot ricocheted over them. Peppered their arrival with
shocked jolted surprise. Ripped chunks of debris went airborne. “Cover! Flying shrapnel,” he warned.
Pellets tore his sleeve. Nipped cuts in his skin. In retaliation, Trace fired three rounds. “He’s there. Around
the corner to the right. Behind the crates. In the shadows! Don’t move. He’s reloading.”
“I don’t see him. I can’t see anything. Muzzle flare. Can’t adjust. Vision blindness. Where is he?” Agent
Waves fought to get her vision back. Her gun hand waved menacingly. Yes, she thought. She heard the
familiar crank of a pump shotgun. Open breach. Eject spent cartridge. 12 gauge cannon fire. Load and lock
another explosive round. “You see the son of bitch? Where’s the bastard?”
“No,” he uttered. Keen to slight furtive shifts in motion. Intuition alerted to unseen forces in murky
realms. “Not anymore.” Another blast from the shotgun refocused their attention. “Stay down. Don’t move.
He’s still a threat. I sense his presence.” Three rounds left. Redclay rolled across the thick dusty pathway.
Heavy magnum firmly in hand. Let go a swift burst of triple firepower. Boom, boom, boom, explosions
thundered climactic detonations. At her side, he reloaded. “Over by the campfire.”
“I saw the muzzle flash over there,” she screamed with surprise at his appearance next to her. “I think I
did,” her voice stammered. On her back, flattened from the forcefulness of his weight. She lifted up
slightly. Not wanting to miss out. Agent Waves joined him in a hurried hail of 9mm projectiles. Hasty
concussions rocked their response. Emptied her pistol. Instantly, shoved another magazine in the gun. Kept
the barrel in the direction of the criminal. In a few seconds, silence hugged their positions. Nothing made
noise. Except the persistent decrepit slowness of an aging cavern. “What happened?”
“Bear Dog went for him.” Redclay survived the scene. “I saw him make his move.” A shadowy figure
crawled in the dim light. Low, deliberate and sneaky. Nearby, behind a stack of broken timbers. A small
fire flickered. Cast huge reflections on the cave walls. Wolf-like, teeth bared in brazen anticipation of a kill.
Or, for that matter, having just killed. A beast relishing in the feel of its dead prey. “Something’s moving.
Don’t shoot. Hold your fire. This hunt is still in play. ”
Moments earlier. Quiet, stealthy and brave. Canine tactics came fast, hard and furious. Growls, snarls
and barks mixed with exploding gunpowder. The old dog leaped through the air. Vicious roars echoed
around piled up rocks, split boulders and splintered pilings. Prey sighted. Quarry cornered. Gunfire had
kept quiet associated action of the violent attack. Stillness stole the moment.
“Whimpering? Bear Dog?” Agent Waves queried him. “What’s that noise?”
“No doubt,” Redclay rose up. Stood and inched toward stacks of debris. “We’ll see what happened.”
Cover, concealment and camouflage worked in their favor. Step by step they closed on the killer. He and
she surrounded the protected enclave. Guns pointed inside the tiny fortifications. Anticipation welcomed
the collective response. Both readied to fire into the little encampment. A surreal hideaway of murderous
solitude. Nearby, a glowing fire consumed burning embers. Together, at the same instant, Trace and Agent
Waves witnessed two bodies. Flaming illumination sparked and crackled a myriad of reflections. Shadowy
phantoms projected mute on the tunnel wall. Blackened forms against brown rubble.
One body on top of the other. Lifeless in a disguise. Blood soaked mannequins. Fixed in unison, as if the
body on top held the other body downward. Waiting for hunters to collect the prey. Preventing its escape.
On top, a massive golden retriever shuddered a last embrace of life. Slight wag of tail and tongue. Jaws
seemed to smile. Bear Dog heaved his final gush of breath. His eyes rolled toward Redclay. Who nodded a
well done nod in return. Bear Dog gave up his valiant spirit for posthumous heroism.
On the bottom, the Collector grimaced the facial need of death. Masked by the slumber of eternity. Eyes
stark, glazed and wide open. Fear in the look of a scared dead man. Knavery Bliss no longer claimed the
expertise of his vast world of skillfulness. Instead, his mouth gaped for a silent scream that never came.
Sudden rush of his own killing. Jugular vein ripped from his neck. Hands clutching a wound that would
never heal. His throat chewed to pieces. Adams apple, larynx and esophagus gnawed to shreds. Blood
spilled everywhere, along with chunks of flesh. Shotgun at his side. Shells scattered around the bodies. An
appearance of the frantic struggle for survival.
“Oh no,” Agent Waves barely uttered. “I’m so sorry, Trace.” She pleaded with all heart
“No don’t,” Redclay replied in a sullen tone. Held up one finger. He knelt at the side of his faithful
companion. “He went where he wanted to go. We must not mourn him with sadness. Only take joy in
where he’s gone.” With gentle ease, Trace stroked the fury mane of his late friend. Seized up the feelings
deep inside. He went to say, “He’s gone to his ancestors. Hunters, protectors, warriors. Bear Dog lives on
in his loyalty to others. He laid down his ultimate sacrifice.”
“He’s a hero,” Agent Waves sniffled. “He saved us further bloodshed by his own.”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about that,” Redclay murmured softly. “He did what we all want to do. Find
stillness in the valor for each of life’s precious moments. Wish for the courage to do that. Fight the good
fight. Win or lose, we don’t care. In the end, the last battle is where we desire to be. Go out with a noble
warrior spirit. Chase the pursuit of being who we are. For the sake of others. Stalk our selflessness in our
journey. So, in the end, the hunter haunts the habitat.”
The End
Brief Bio-Sketch:
Randy Gonzalez has been an active member in the criminal justice field for the past 32 years. As a police officer,
deputy sheriff and law enforcement trainer, he has been involved in a number of criminal justice educational
activities. He is the former director of a police academy and a retired chief of police. As a police academy
director, he was responsible for basic recruit training, as well as advanced and career development courses for in-
service law enforcement personnel. His involvement in law enforcement training extends state-wide. And, he is
listed as an expert witness regarding related law enforcement issues. Randy also serves as an adjunct professor of
criminology on the faculties of several vocational and college institutions. In addition, He has served as an
educational consultant to schools, vocational centers and colleges on matters of law enforcement training. At
present, as program director, he lectures and develops educational materials for a local college’s criminal justice
and crime scene investigation programs.
Randy Gonzalez holds B.A. and M.A. degrees in Criminology, and M.P.A. degree in Public Administration, and
a Ph.D. in Biblical Philosophy. As a certified law enforcement instructor, he holds certifications in general
studies, WMD, law, firearms, driving, medical first responder, human diversity and defensive tactics. As a
martial arts practitioner, he has taught classes on self-defense and personal safety education. He remains actively
involved in various law enforcement projects.
Over the past 30 years, Randy has written and published articles and training manuals related to the field of
criminal justice and law enforcement. His training materials have been used in college courses and police
academy training programs. He remains an active member of several professional associations at the state,
national and international levels. In addition, he participates in several local writer’s groups and continues to
write both fiction and non-fiction projects. Randy continues to consult on educational training issues for public
and private organizations. His main website is located at: www.drgonzo.org - And, his email address is:
gonzoscti@hotail.com.
Randy Gonzalez firs novel, Angels Keep Watch, an e-book on CD-ROM:
See the Youtube trailers about the novel at www.drgonzo.org

Five Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Five Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

A Collection of Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez – www.drgonzo.

Five Short Stories by Randy Gonzalez

Included in this Collection are:

An Explosive Personality (Police Drama)

Knight Checks Queen (Spy Thriller)

Flotsam and Jetsam (Spy-Police Drama)

Knight in Shining Armor (Spy Thriller)

The Hunter Haunts the Habitat (Private Detective Drama)

gonzoscti@hotmail.com Randy Gonzalez's Website

Knight Checks Queen

Flotsam and Jetsam by Randy Gonzalez

Knight in Shining Armor by Randy Gonzalez

The Hunter Haunts the Habitat - by Randy Gonzalez

Randy Gonzalez firs novel, Angels Keep Watch, an e-book on CD-ROM:

See the Youtube trailers about the novel at www.drgonzo.org

You might also like